


Through the Window

by SummerLeighWind



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Bars and Pubs, Beauxbatons, Break Up, Bullying, Canon Compliant, Character Death, Christmas, Cute Kids, Death Eaters, Family, Family Drama, Family Feels, Family Secrets, First War with Voldemort, Flying, Frog Choir, Gen, Hanukkah, Harry Potter Next Generation, Hogwarts, Ilfracombe Dragon Attack, Jewish Character, Libraries, Long Lost/Secret Relatives, Minor Original Character(s), Next-Gen, One Shot Collection, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Pregnancy, Romance, Second War with Voldemort, Slug Club, Teenage Drama, The Golden Trio Era, Wakes & Funerals, Weddings, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-08-21 20:19:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 22,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8259361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SummerLeighWind/pseuds/SummerLeighWind
Summary: A collection of twenty-six canon-compliant one-shots about various HP characters of varying genres.





	1. A Day with Susan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amelia Bones spends an afternoon with her niece.

Amelia Bones paused in the doorway of her living room. Her niece, Susan, was on the floor. She had her back propped against the bottom of the sofa and her stocking-covered feet were sprawled out in front of her. She looked like such a normal girl, gnawing on her thumbnail as she studied the pages of one of the French fashion magazines she so adored. It was a pity, Amelia felt, that her brother, Jerald, wouldn't allow them in his home. He insisted they made girls vapid and vain creatures and with the heroic Bones name to uphold, neither trait could be allowed to take hold in Susan. She was both their legacies and with the start of this new war, they had to make sure she'd survive it – even if it meant Susan would be the last Bones in all of Britain by its end.

As much as they needed Susan to become a woman of steel who would not break, Amelia couldn't help but indulge her niece's softer interests now and again. It was not because she disagreed with Jerald (Amelia herself had always disdained the girls and women who thought of little more than what color lipstick would best suit their new blouse), but because she feared if Susans's heart grew too hard, her eyes too icy, she would not survive _after_ the war. Amelia worried her niece would feel purposeless in the wake of a peaceful world more in need of compassionate witches and wizards who could work interdependently with others to rebuild what was broken in the war instead of merciless soldiers who could draw their wands quicker in a duel and _win_.

Truly, a fashion magazine was a small thing, but when paired together with the rest of the ritual she and Amelia shared, it became something far greater. Once Susan was finished absorbing the new trends in hats and robes, she and Amelia would give each other manicures. As tradition dictated, Amelia would first do Susan's nails, and as they waited for them to dry the Muggle way, they would talk about how life was treating Susan. About the antics she and her friends got up to at Hogwarts, perhaps a little about the younger students she tutored in Transfiguration, then, if she was having any, they would discuss the problems her niece was having. Academic or otherwise. Finally, once Susan's nails were dried, Amelia would have hers painted by the girl and she would tell her niece a little about work and relay a story or two from her youth (which almost always included Edgar or her parents) and finish by saying how much Susan reminded Amelia of her father or Edgar and how her helpful nature would suit her well should she become an Auror like them.

Amelia wouldn't know for some time to come, but she held a great deal of hope these intimate moments with her niece would help her in the future. That she could look back on the lessons she learned from Amelia and use them when needed in a post-war world.

Smiling at her niece when the teenager finally noticed her, Amelia moved forward, careful to keep her hands steady so none of the bottles of nail varnish tipped on her way to the sofa. Taking a seat on the blue-grey cushion, she set the tray down beside her and looked meaningfully to the empty spot on the other side of the tray. "Learn anything interesting?" she asked.

Putting the fashion magazine in the rack kept by the sofa's clawed foot, Susan said, "Light purple and pale green are popular colors in the summer lines."

Amelia hummed, glad she had looked through the magazine before her niece came. She'd noticed that too, when perusing the pages, and had picked today's nail varnish hues with it in mind. "Aren't we lucky I picked up a bottle of 'He Lilac's you' and 'Seafoam is So You'?"

Susan crinkled her nose, but her eyes glittered with mirth. "Oh, those are awful names."

She shrugged as she uncapped the bottle of purple nail varnish. "Maybe so, but you can't deny these are fashionable colors."

Amelia's niece leaned in. "I do like it…" She nibbled once more at her thumb. "Though, I haven't see the green yet."

"Quite right," she replied, setting the purple aside and opening the green. Susan's eyes darted between the colors. Amelia held herself back from chiding the teenager about her indecisiveness. This was _nail varnish_ , not a life or death situation. Just because she couldn't decide between two colors didn't mean she'd fail to make the right call in battle.

Finally, her niece turned her attention to her fingers. Giving them a considerate wiggle, she asked, "Do you think they'd look good together paired together? I was thinking, painting half of my fingers purple and half green could be fun."

Amelia smiled. "Most definitely."

Susan grinned back and for the next ten minutes, she sat patiently as Amelia carefully covered each nail with purple or green. When finished, she stared at them for a moment before nodding her head in satisfaction. Then, as per tradition, she rested them on her knees and asked, "What color do you want?"

"Green," Amelia replied. "So, Susan, how do think you did on your OWLs?"

The girl looked away. "Fine. Transfiguration was quite easy. Potions, though…"

Amelia sighed. "Please tell me you think you at least got an Acceptable?"

"Would it really be that bad if I didn't? What good is potions for a career as an Auror, anyway?"

Her heart fluttered briefly, then fell into her stomach like a bird shot from the sky by a hunter. "Oh, so you've decided then?" Amelia inquired, not sure why she suddenly felt so ill. Amelia and Jerald had always wanted for Susan to become an Auror like her – like Edgar. The thought of another one of their level-headed bunch in the department to keep the brasher Aurors in line after she retired from her post as Head had been a pleasant imagining. Until today, anyway.

Nodding resolutely, the girl said, "Yes. I know, I'll probably have to hit the ground running, especially if thing continue as they are now and that I might have a target on my back, because of what happened to Uncle Edgar, Aunt Darlene, the cousins, and Grandma and Gramps, but that's all the more reason to, as well, you know? If I don't become one, some Death Eater sympathizer will and you _know_ they won't go out of their way to help anyone but the purest of wizards and witches."

"That's right," Amelia whispered. "They'll only help those who least deserve it."

Susan beamed. "It'll be kind of neat, getting to work for you also."

Amelia began to grind her teeth. Recently, rumors had started to go around the Ministry, her _office_ , about what was coming to those who'd defied Voldemort in the first war. It had kicked Amelia into high alert and she'd begun to covertly look for a new flat while helping Jerald ward his and Susan's home against a potential attack. Neither had wanted to worry Susan just yet, as talk was just _talk._ Or it was until something happened. And even if something did happen, it would be her who was targeted first.

She was Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and during the first war, worked alongside the Order of the Pheonix to defeat Voldemort (unlike Jerald, who'd been far too busy trying to figure out how to be a single parent). She even narrowly missed being slaughtered like the rest of her family. On the night of her parents', her brother's, and his family's murders, she'd been planning to spend the evening with them. But at the last minute, Amelia had to cancel because she had to cover for a fellow Auror who'd had to leave suddenly after finding out his sister's niece had been killed.

"I'd love to work with you too, Susan. But, just in case things don't go accordingly, have you given any thoughts to _other_ career options?"

The teenager's brow wrinkled. "Do you not think I'll get in? Have you heard something at the Ministry? Are they planning to change the requirements to apply?"

Amelia sighed. "No, nothing has changed." Bringing out her wand, she waved it over her niece's nails, speeding up the drying process with a spell. If this conversation went on much longer, she'd have to reveal more about the going ons of the Ministry than she was comfortable with at this time. Just because she felt a bit hunted there didn't mean she needed to make her niece fret. Besides, even if something did become of that feeling, Amelia would likely be fine (as long as the Dark Lord himself did not come for her), she was more capable of defending herself than most. When done, she tucked her wand back in her robe and said with false cheer, "It's as they say, a backup plan is always a good idea – even if you don't need one."

"Ah," Susan murmured, sounding for all the world as if she understood. But her eyes told Amelia all she needed to know.

Her niece did not believe a word she had just said.


	2. A Fine Day to Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blaise tells his daughter his closest guarded secret.

His daughter's hand was a comforting weight in his. A life-line to the present as an old, half-forgotten memory of the first time he was here began to lap at his brain.

_"Mummy, why's it got words on it?"_

_"So people who see it know Papa is buried beneath."_

_"Does it say nice things about him?"_

_"…Yes."_

Staring at the ornate marble stone, Blaise Zabini read the inscription aloud for her:

" _Bernardo Zabini, September 2nd, 1951 to March 17th, 1984._ "

His daughter looked up at him, dusky features troubled. "That's all?" she asked, tone as disbelieving as he remembers his own being once he realized just how little his father's stone actually said.

Blaise dipped his chin in confirmation. There was nothing to say. Its inscription had never been his to choose.

"How old were you when he died?"

"A little younger than you are now," Blaise said, hedging (though, he's not sure why, it really doesn't matter).

She stamped her little feet, the tips of her boots leaving indents in the soft ground beneath their feet. He wondered if his papa could sense the tiny feet of his granddaughter stomping on his grave somehow. Blaise hoped it didn't upset him if he could. Dominique was too young to understand how disrespectful it was and he was too tightly wound from being _here_ to even begin to explain to her.

"Papa, how _old_?" Dominique demanded.

He sighed. Something he couldn't quite place began to gnaw at his stomach. "I was just about to turn four."

His daughter made a noise that sounded torn between sympathy and surprise. "That's _little_."

Blaise pinpointed the feeling. It was worry. He didn't like this line of conversation. He'd just wanted his daughter to meet her grandfather, now they were talking about _Blaise_. He hated talking about himself – especially about his childhood. It had been a miserable time, with a mother being more concerned with climbing the social ladder than making sure he was happy, and constant talk about the untimeliness of her husbands' deaths going on behind his back (and later, when he started Hogwarts, to his _face_ ).

"You were that little not too long ago," he told her, trying to throw their chat in a different direction, as he fondly gave one of her dozen-plus braids a tug.

The girl glared. "No, I wasn't. I'm _six_. Four was _two_ years ago. Plus, I've been six for _five_ months and in _seven_ I'll be seven!"

"You've been working on your maths," Blaise remarked. "Good job, Dominique."

She preened. Then, she stilled. When Dominique turned her stare on him once more Blaise tried not to recoil at the inquisitiveness he saw burning in her dark gaze. "Daddy, how'd he die?"

The worry gnawing at his stomach stopped only long enough for the sharp knife of panic to gut him. He'd lied before. He should lie again. Yet…

"Grandmother–" he stopped. Getting down on his knees, Blaise searched his daughter's face. It was scrunched in confusion, she didn't understand why he'd paused or dropped to his knees. She didn't have a clue that he was about to reveal his most closely guarded secret.

"Papa?" she asked.

Blaise's mouth went dry. Dominique was so small. So naive to the evils of the world. Blaise just didn't have the heart to taint it so soon. It hadn't helped him any as a boy, so why would it help her? His hands curled into fists where they rested on his thighs. He said, "I wasn't there. Grandmother was. She says he just fell out of his chair and didn't get up. I've never asked exactly what it was that killed him. I doubt anyone even knows."

She blinked. "Oh."

Blaise looked at the grave once more. ' _Someday, Dominique, I'll tell you the truth,_ ' he thought.

-v-v-v-

 _Blaise padded through the narrow hallway of his home. He was careful to keep to the shadows, as he knew his parents were still awake and if Mummy found him, she'd be awfully cross with him for being out of bed. If he made it to Papa, though, he'd take Blaise into his lap and tell him stories until he fell asleep. Blaise loved listening to Papa, he talked differently from everyone else he knew and sometimes used words that were from a whole nother language called_ Italian.

_Successfully reaching his Papa's study, Blaise grinned, pleased at his sneakiness. Though he should still be careful 'cause Mummy could be sitting with Papa instead of sitting in her bedroom brushing out her hair. Turning the knob centimeter by centimeter, Blaise eased it open. Stifling a giggle behind his elbow as he pushed forward, Blaise prepared himself to run across the room._

_But, before he even took a step, he froze. Mummy was standing behind Papa's chair, one of her arms was hidden by the back of the chair and Papa. Blaise knew she probably had it resting across Papa because she had one leg crossed behind the other and her head was bent low. She was whispering her secrets to him, the ones Blaise wasn't supposed to know til he was big and grown like them. He was about to duck back, go to his room to hide for a while, when out of the corner of his eye he noticed a slight movement._

_His mummy dropped something into Papa's teacup. He didn't know what it was, and he was curious. What could it be? Was she playing some kind of joke on Papa? Hovering in the doorway, Blaise watched as Papa's hand drifted out from behind the chair and took the cup. A moment later, he set it back down and Mummy and he laughed at something._

_Blaise sorely wished he could be in front of them at that moment, thinking the joke Mummy played on him had happened. But, just as quick as he wished for it, he thanked Merlin he wasn't because Papa was groaning and then, toppling out of his chair._

_Mummy started to scream. She screamed and screamed until her tan face was as dark as his and Papa's and Blaise could only stand in the doorway, feet rooted to the spot. Mummy ran to the fireplace and threw Floo powder down. She thrust her head into the flames and started to yell for St. Mungo's._

_When she pulled back, a witch's head came to life in the flames. "What's your emergency?" she asked._

_"My husband collapsed!" Mummy wailed._

_Blaise pulled back. Centimeter by centimeter he closed the door. Then he walked back to his bedroom, careful to stick to the shadows. Slipping into his bed, he pulled the covers over his head and stuck his thumb in his mouth. Something was wrong with Papa. He hoped the Healers at St. Mungo's could fix him. He didn't know what he would do without his Papa. Tears spilling down his cheek, Blaise curled in on himself and cried himself to sleep._

_When he woke the next morning, he went to the kitchen. Mummy stood by the stove, a cup of tea in hand. "Where's Papa?" he asked._

_Mummy's eyes flashed with something he couldn't quite pinpoint. "Blaise, lovely, something happened to your Papa last night…"_

_She told him about how they'd been talking together when he fell out of his chair. How he wouldn't wake up. How she called St. Mungo's and the healers did everything they could to fix him, but they just couldn't. He passed away while you were sleeping. Papa's dead. Do you understand, Blaise?_

_Blaise understood. Blaise also understood that before Papa died, he drank from the teacup that Mummy put stuff in._

_"Uh-huh," Blaise murmured between sniffles when Mummy asked again if he understood. "Uh-huh."_

_She pulled him into her arms and cradled him like he was a little baby. "Oh, lovely…" she cooed, tone far too cake-icing sweet for Blaise's liking. In that moment, he warred with the urge_ _to push her away, to tell her he_ saw _. But he didn't. He was scared. He was sad. He was confused. He felt loved by Mummy in her arms. He even loved her back_

_(But, now, he hated her a little too)._

-v-v-v-

"Why are you telling me this, Papa?" asked Dominique, voice strained. He looked at his daughter. The angry set of her brows, the tears welling in the corners of her eyes. It dawned on Blaise that she may never forgive him. If he'd known…

Throat constricting around the words that were about to rise out of it, he turned his gaze to his papa's grave. Staring at it, he thought of the graves of the other men his mother married over the years. They were scattered across England, Papa's was the only one that rested on foreign soil. He was glad for it. The distance made him feel more special, more loved than all the other men his mother had (even if it was not the truth).

His daughter was seventeen today. She would start her last year at Hogwarts next week. He thought of when he last brought her here. Dominique was just hip-high and so, so curious to hear about her grandfather. Now, she was disinterested in him and everything else Blaise had to say. She had a mouth on her too, now. When she was not being smart, she was snogging her latest boyfriend. Blaise tried not to let it bother him, but it made his hackles rise every time he heard about her latest break up and hook up.

She was a bit too much like her grandmother in some ways.

Rolling back his shoulders, Blaise met the woman's gaze head on. "You're old enough for it now."

His daughter's lips twisted. "How am I ever going to look Grandmum in the eyes again?" she demanded.

"I do it."

She snorted. "Thanks, _Father,_ that helps a lot."

Blaise watched her turn away. He followed her with his eyes as she retraced the path they took to his papa's grave and disappeared from sight. He knew a different father would have run after her, but not him. Blaise doubted she would appreciate it should he even try.

Instead of following after her, he walked further into the cemetery. He took in the graves of men, women, and children. Read the inscriptions and pondered having more added to his father's. Then, after a while, he decided against it. His mother would likely find out somehow and Blaise greatly disliked the idea of her reading the message he would have inscribed in the marble.

Dusk now on the horizon, Blaise began the walk back to the hotel he and his daughter had a pair of jointed suites at. Along the way, he chose to take a shortcut through an alleyway. Thoughts on his daughter once more, he noticed too late the footsteps from behind. In the ensuing struggle, Blaise staggered when a knife struck him through the chest.

His attacker ran, leaving Blaise to bleed out alone. He managed to roll over and get to his knees, but the pain became so great that he fell forward, causing the knife to dig deeper into his chest. Spitting up blood on the cobbled streets of a no-consequence village in Italy, Blaise's last living thought was for his father.

'Did dying hurt this much for you, Papa?'

(Later, when Dominique finished her fuming in the silence of her room, she went to the front desk of the hotel and asked if her father had returned. The little old woman working it told her he hadn't. When Dominique made to leave on her own to find him, the woman fussed and insisted she stay. Young women shouldn't go out alone into the night! Dominique promised to acquiesce, as long as someone went looking for her father in her place. It was not like him to be gone so long. The old woman called for a couple of young men, they soon left, promising with big smiles to bring her father back to her. Likely hoping to win her favor and more, as well. Dominique was quite the looker.

An hour later, no longer smiling, they returned. They walked right past Dominique and whispered to the grandmotherly woman behind the front desk. She gasped and looked to Dominique, who lounged on a couch, pretending to pick at a loose thread on her shirt. The woman came out from behind the counter as the men hung back.

Wrinkled face distraught, the old woman sat down beside Dominique and told her what the men found. Dominique refused to believe it. She shouted and cried and called them all liars until a Muggle Auror came and took her away to identify her father's body.

When she saw it was her father, she collapsed and sobbed into her hands. A kindly Muggle Auror helped her get in contact with her grandmother. Not even a few hours later, the aged beauty was beside Dominique. Dark eyes wet, she took hold of Dominique's hand and swore:

"I'll take care of you. You won't have to grieve alone."

Dominique saw through her grandmother. She saw things that no one before her or ever after would. She was brave. She said the one thing to her Blaise never dared to.

"Don't you talk to me about grief! I bet you've _never_ felt it before. You killed my grandfather!")


	3. It's a Nice Day to Start Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cedrella Black's (soon to be Weasley) wedding day.

* * *

Cedrella Weasley fingered the pearls around her neck. They had been a gift from her mother-in-law to be – her something old. She gazed out the window that overlooked the front of the church. Her stomach began to knot at the sight of a lone figure approaching the church. Their height seemed to indicate they were a man, and the gray robe and wide-brimmed hat he wore reminded Cedrella of her father. She was certain it couldn't be, of course. He'd been very vocal about his distaste for her engagement to Septimus and had refused to see her since she announced it. Him appearing for her wedding was an absolutely preposterous idea. Turning away from the window, she paced toward the full-length mirror on the opposite side of the room. She sighed. Her hair was a frizzy mess. She doubted even a potion could fix it at this point.

"I guess I'll wear it up…" she whispered. 'It wouldn't be so bad,' she told herself. 'You always look more sophisticated when you do, anyway _._ '

The door to the side room opened. She turned to see her Matron of Honor, Septimus's sister-in-law, Moira, standing in the threshold. "Cedrella!" she hissed, frantically waving for her to come close.

Warily, Cedrella approached. She did not like the wild set of Moira's eyes. "Yes?" she asked.

"Your father is here!" she cried.

Her mouth dropped open. "You're joking!"

The other woman shook her head. "No! He's seated in the back pew of the hall!"

"Why?"

The other woman rolled her eyes. "Why would _I_ know?"

Cedrella pursed her lips and tried to not sound too annoyed as she said, "Will you ask him for me, please?"

Moira's expression turned uneasy. "I don't know…"

"Please? I can't step out, I'm already in my wedding gown. It'd bring us even more bad luck if Septimus caught an eyeful of me."

She sighed. "Yes, okay. I'll bring him to you."

Leaning forward, Cedrella squeezed her Matron of Honor's arm. "You're a gem, Moira. Thank you!"

A smile ghosted across the older woman's face. "Don't thank me yet, Cedrella." With that, she stepped back and closed the door. Alone, Cedrella began to hum her and Septimus's preferred Wedding March beneath her breath and attempted to step-in-time to the four-four rhythm. Unfortunately for her, she was quite awful.

"Oh, I hope I don't make a fool of myself…"

"But you already have, Cedrella."

The woman whirled around. Her father was stood by the door, hands folded neatly in front of him, in his grip, his favorite white traveling gloves. "Father," she said.

"Is that all you have to say?" he asked.

She narrowed her eyes at the austere man. "What else would you have me say? How about: 'Oh, Dearest Daddy! How lovely it is to see you! It's been _ages_!'"

"Impudent as ever, I see," he replied, voice cool.

Cedrella laughed mockingly. "If you say so."

"Aren't you curious to know why I've come today?" he asked.

She crossed her arms and looked toward the window. "Why? It's quite obvious you're not here to give me your blessing," she grumbled.

"Ah, but I've come with something _better_."

The hair on the back of Cedrella's neck rose. She did not like that tone at all. Eyes on him once more, she replied, "Oh?"

"If you come home and leave this all behind you, you will retain your inheritance to your share of the Black fortune," he told her, looking terribly smug.

Cedrella could only gape, stunned into silence. When speech returned to her, she asked, "Are you threatening to _disown_ me?"

"No, I'm _promising_ you that I will. I will not stand by any longer and allow you to ruin our family name by marrying a filthy Mudblood-lover."

She began to shake. She could not _believe_ him! What did it matter if Septimus's best friends were Muggleborns? His blood was just as pure as the Blacks! "He's not a Mudblood-lover, his friends just happen to be Muggleborns!" she argued.

"Happen? _Happen_?" Her father sneered. "Friends don't just _happen_ , Cedrella. He chose them! He chose to associate with them, _chose_ to continue being friendly once he knew they were vermin!"

Cedrella drew her wand snitch-quick. "Elliot and Sarah are not vermin! If you call those kind people that again, I will hex you into next week!"

"Lower your wand," he growled.

She strengthened her grip and raised her chin to a defiant height. "Only if you leave," she hissed. "I will not stand by and let you insult my fiance and _our_ friends any longer."

"You will never see your mother or sisters again," her father threatened.

Cedrella refused to waver. She would miss her baby sister, Charis, but losing Mother and Callidora felt like no great tragedy even now. They'd always been frigid. She said, "That's not the ultimatum you think it is."

Countenance bright red, her father raged, "You are a disgrace! An utter disappointment! There will be _nothing_ you, your children, or your children's children will be able to do to earn back the favor of the house of Black!"

"Fine! I don't care! Neither will any of my children or grandchildren or even _their_ children! I'll make sure they all hate you as much you hate them!"

Her father's fury drained from his countenance suddenly. Expression icy, he warned, "You'll regret this day, Cedrella. Love fades and someday, you'll look at your Mudblood-lover husband, your subpar home, your unruly children, your wasted _life_ and wonder why you ever gave up your birthright and all the potential that came with it for them."

She jerked her head toward the door. "No," she said, "I won't." Eyes steely, she told her father, "The only one who will regret anything is you. Today, you will be losing a daughter, a son, and who knows how many grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and subsequent descendants because you can't stand the thought of them mingling and being friendly with Muggleborns."

He glared at her for a long moment. Finally, he spat, "As you wish." And then, just as suddenly as he'd come, he was gone.

Cedrella wouldn't know how she did it later, but she managed to stand tall for a good minute or two after her father left. In that time, she felt amazing. She'd told him off! She'd done something that she doubted anyone before her ever had, she'd disagreed with him and _lived_. Her euphoria deserted her soon enough, however.

Less than a second later, she was a heap on the ground, sobbing for everything lost. She could never go home again. She would never have Charis smile at her again, her mother and Callidora would never speak to her again, her cousins, aunts, and uncles were going to treat her like a stranger. Perhaps they'd even sneer at her – Father certainly would the next time he saw her.

"Cedrella?" called Septimus.

Wiping at her eyes, she glanced up and gave an unhappy wail when she saw that he was staring down at her with sad eyes. "You aren't supposed to see me before the wedding!" she cried.

Stepping into the room, he kneeled down beside her and said, "I'm sorry, my love."

"Oh, what are you sorry for? It's not like you're to blame for Father. He's always been that way."

He kissed her cheek. "It doesn't change anything. I'm still sad for you. For what he did to you."

"I really shouldn't be this upset," she told him. "I never much liked my family anyway. Charis was the only ever worth a knut, and even she wasn't perfect. She was always so spoiled…"

"Still," he said.

She sniffled. "Still," she agreed.

Hesitantly, he asked, "Do you… Do you want to postpone today?"

Cedrella's eyes went wide. "No!" she shouted. "Merlin, Septimus! No! This is really just a minor setback. If you send in Moira and Sarah, they'll have me fixed right up and we'll only be a few minutes off schedule."

He searched her face. "You know how I feel about you, about _us_ , won't change if we postpone the wedding, right?"

She smiled. "I know," she said. Leaning forward, she pecked his lips. "That's why I love you."

Septimus grinned. "I love you too, Cedrella."

Embracing her husband-to-be, Cedrella took comfort in his warmth and thought, 'For you, I'd be disowned a thousand times.'


	4. The Day Dean Met Gemma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean Thomas learned a lot from the war. Some of it unexpected. Like his dad just might have been a wizard and he has family in the wizarding world.

_Dean Thomas waved the piece of parchment around, very excited as he exclaimed, "This is it, Mum! This proves Dad wasn't a good-for-nothing wanker!"_

_His mum just followed the paper with her eyes – too busy feeding his sister Vanessa's baby to snatch it from him._

_"How?" she asked, voice quiet and deceptively calm. "How does that piece of paper prove that_ man _was not a bastard who left me with no money and baby to care for alone, Dean?"_

_Dean paused, some of his enthusiasm waning. "Maybe he'll still be kind of a tosser after I tell you this, but at least it lets us kind of see why he did leave."_

_Setting aside the baby's now empty bottle, his Mum lifted Dean's nephew to her shoulder and began to pat his back. "I'm listening," she said. "Heaven knows I've always wanted to know why."_

_He relaxed some. "When I was on the run, I got to meeting a lot of people. Some of them I told my life story to. A couple suggested that maybe I really wasn't a Muggleborn like we've thought._ _They were alive during the first war, and a few of them remembered stories about wizards and witches abandoning their Muggle spouses and families during the war because they were afraid their families would get hurt otherwise. Not all of those wizards or witches went back to their families after the war was over."_

_His mother straightened in her seat. Eyes narrowing, she said, "Is that so?"_

_Dean ducked his head. "I'm not saying they fell in love with fellow witches and wizards and made new families and just never came back – at least not all of them – but some still ended up being attacked. Some of them died, Mum."_

_Eyes dewy, Mum asked, "Which category did your father fall into, Dean?"_

_He thrust the parchment beneath her nose. He let her eyes rove over the name, dates, and other heartbreaking details. Softly, sadly, he whispered, "The later."_

* * *

Dean shifted from foot to foot, incapable of standing still as he waited for someone to answer the door. He had done a lot of researching these past few months to find out more about Dad and his family since he showed Mum his death certificate. Surprisingly, there was quite a lot of information. His dad's magical ancestry went back almost two hundred years and they'd married into a lot of lesser pureblood families who lineage's ran back a lot farther while also marrying the occasional Half-Blood now and again.

His father's father, Robert Thomas, had been the fourth son of a Phillip Thomas and Mary Thomas née Ollivander (and how wicked was that? To be related to wand-makers?) and his father's mother, Charlotte Thomas née Runcorn, had been the only daughter of three. His grandparents had two children, his dad, Alan, and a daughter, Iris. From the records he'd found, Iris had been nine years older than his father and married almost straight out of Hogwarts to a man named Lukas Farley. In 1975, they'd had a daughter.

Gemma Farley.

It was hard to say one way or another from such cut and dry information like marriage licenses, birth certificates, and so forth, but he suspected they may have gotten a bit bigoted over those two hundred years. With not a single Muggle or Muggleborn in the family since the _first_ Thomas, Dean was starting to fear his dad may have been a bit of a rebel. And Dean? The first half-blood in the family in almost four generations.

Dean sure hoped Gemma didn't turn him away.

Finally, the front door opened. He stared. On the other side of the threshold was a willowy woman who was nearly the same height as him. Absently, Dean noted his lankiness and stature had to be a Thomas trait. What really caught Dean off guard about Gemma, however, was the baby on her hip. It couldn't be all that much older than his nephew.

"None of the records I read said you had a baby," he blurted.

Gemma's mouth pulled into a thin line. "While we'll be getting back to the records bit, this baby isn't–" She stopped, expression now conflicted. Gemma reached a tender finger up to wipe away a trail of drool from the baby's chin. "I've not yet officially adopted her. My cousin, her mother, left her with me when she fled England during the war. I know, if Madge were alive, she would have come back by now, but seeing as I haven't received any news about her or the rest of her family… I wait and hold hope."

Dean mentally sifted through what little information he'd looked up on the Farley's. He'd not been half as interested in her family as he'd been in his. Though, he did vaguely recall hearing on the Wireless during the war about a number of Farley's being on the run. "I'm sorry," he said dumbly, he'd known her mother was dead, but the others? Not even a little. Dean was beginning to think he should have looked a lot more into Gemma's father's family.

She blew her ragged bangs out of her eyes. "Aren't we all?"

Feeling uncomfortable under her piercing gaze, Dean said, "Um, I think we might be cousins."

" _Really_?" she said, sounding one hundred percent unamused with him.

Dean felt a flash of fear. She wasn't going to slam the door in his face, was she? Before she could he replied in a rush, "Yeah! My dad, Alan, was your mum's brother."

Her mouth dropped open. "Uncle – What, no. Uncle Alan went on the run to avoid becoming a Death Eater like my parents and grandpa during the first war. Then he got caught and they made us all watch as they killed him."

His gut twisted. Gemma wasn't much older than him. He could easily imagine her as a little girl. Skinny, but small like he'd been. Maybe with the same fringe she had now, maybe with pigtails – it didn't really matter – watching with big, big eyes as his dad was tortured to death while being held in her mother's or grandmother's arms. It was horrifying.

Letting silence reign between the for a minute, he let her scrutinize him as he did the same to her. The way she was glowering at him made Dean feel as if she still didn't believe they were cousins. Rocking on his feet, he offered, "If you need me to, I can prove were family." He reached into his pocket where he held the shrunken envelope holding his birth certificate and a few family photos. "I have a picture of him, my mum, and me before he left us."

Gemma stepped back. "Come in," she said.

Surprised, Dean could only gape.

The woman frowned. "What's wrong with you?" she demanded.

Ducking his head in embarrassment, Dean muttered, "Sorry." Before hurrying past the threshold. Glancing around the small flat, he remarked, "This is a nice flat."

She scoffed. "You don't have to lie. I know this place is a hovel. Unfortunately, along with sending Dad to Azkaban they took most of the Farley fortune too. There was no way I could rebuild my family home after that."

Dean turned around and met Gemma's dark gaze. "No, I mean it. It's cozy. It reminds me a lot of the flat me and Mum had before she married my stepdad."

Gemma blinked, seemingly taken off guard. Warily she said, "Thanks, I guess, then."

He smiled. "You're welcome." Turning his attention to the baby on her hip, he asked, "So, um, what's her name?"

"Nadine." A smile ghosted across her face. "I know, it's a little old-fashioned."

Dean laughed. "I have no complaints. It's better than what my sister named her son. _Milo_! Can you believe that? Sounds like something you'd call your dog."

Gemma half-ducked behind her cousin's head, hiding her grin in the baby's wispy, brown curls. "It does a bit," she agreed. Gesturing to the next room, she asked, "Do you want me to put the kettle on? Or…"

He shook his head. "No," he said. "I'm fine." Dean glanced to the sofa against the wall to their left. "Do you want to take a seat?"

She nodded. A few moments later, they were settled side-by-side, baby Nadine between them. As Dean spelled his envelope back to normal size, Nadine babbled happily, trying to grab it. Smiling at the baby, Dean told her, "Just a moment. Let me take the stuff out and the envelope is all yours."

"You don't have to give her that," Gemma told him. "I can accio a toy over."

Finished with pulling out the photos and birth certificate, he replied, "Really, it's no trouble." Before he handed Nadine the envelope and Gemma the pictures and certificate.

With a squeal, the baby scrunched the paper together before sticking it in her mouth. He grinned. "At that stage, is she? One of my younger sisters didn't outgrow it until she was almost four."

Gemma asked, "How many siblings do you have? You seem pretty familiar with babies and children."

Dean tipped his head back and mentally counted. "Technically? Just two. My little sisters, Kylie and Amber. But my stepdad has a daughter, Vanessa, and she's only a year older than me. We grew up together, so she's basically my sister. She also has a half-sister named Ava we took in about five years back when Ava was four. We did that because her mum got into a bit of trouble with drugs and my stepdad wasn't about to let her go to her grandparents. Her grandfather's a pedo."

Gemma crinkled her nose. "That was… Good of him."

"He's pretty great," Dean admitted. "He's never treated me or Ava any different even though we really aren't his kids."

Gemma bent a little closer, haltingly, she continued, "And you have a nephew now too?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah, Milo. Vanessa and her boyfriend hadn't really planned him, he just happened, you know?"

She nodded. Then, as Gemma picked up her niece and placed her in her lap, something wistful came to her eyes. "I remember what it was like, having a big family. It was nice."

He averted his eyes and said, "I'm sorry."

"Whatever for?" she asked, sounding truly surprised. "We brought it on ourselves. Everyone felt so superior, joining sides with Voldemort… Uncle Alan was the dunderhead in everyone's minds, during the first war, I mean. He ran away from a perfectly good opportunity to become someone. But, then, they found him and they–" Gemma covered her mouth with one hand. "I've lived through two wars, but I still think watching Uncle Alan be tortured to death is by far the worst thing I've ever seen."

Dean didn't hesitate to wrap an arm around her. "You were so little when it happened, too," he whispered.

Sniffling into his neck for a few minutes, she eventually pulled away and dabbed at her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt. "Thank you," she said. "I'm sorry. You were looking for something when you came here. What was it?"

"I… Well, I just kind of wanted to get to know you. You're family. I know you were pretty young when Dad died, but I… I don't know, I guess I was just hoping you might have pictures and stories and stuff you could share? So I could know him a bit? Mum hasn't really had much good to say about him ever. Not that I blame her, since he _did_ leave and we never knew why, but I don't think she has more than a handful of good stories in her anymore that aren't twisted with bitterness and anger."

Fingers playing with her niece's wispy hair, Gemma said, "I really don't have much. Death Eaters torched both my parents home and my Uncle's when he and his family went on the run. So most of the Thomas family pictures are gone. They killed Mum, while they were at it, and she'd have had the most stories about him…"

Dean sighed. "I understand."

"I really am sorry…" a funny twist came to her lips. "What is your name? I don't think I ever caught it."

His face heated up. Had he really never introduced himself? "Oh Merlin, _I'm_ sorry! I'm Dean."

"Dean," she repeated. A valley formed between her brows. "I think we were at Hogwarts at the same time, weren't we? At least for a little while?"

Pleasure bloomed inside his chest. She recognized him! "Yes!" he replied. "I was a first year during your sixth year."

Gemma dipped her head. "Ah," she said. "There was something about you, around the eyes, that made you look a little familiar."

He only smiled.

Glancing at the pictures and certificate in her hand for the first time, she remarked, "These are Muggle."

"Yes, Mum's a Muggle," Dean replied. Unease began to churn his stomach. "That's not a problem, is it?"

Gemma set the papers down on the coffee table and gave Dean a long, hard stare. "If I said yes," she began, "It means I have learned nothing from the last couple of years. If I say no, I will be lying."

Dean's shoulders slumped and he dropped his gaze to his lap. He was certain it would only be a matter of time now before she told him to leave. He was never going to learn what kind of man his father was…

"Dean," she said, "look at me."

Hesitantly, he lifted his gaze.

Her eyes were watery. "There are a lot of things wrong with me, Dean. Out of all the family that's survived, it's probably a misfortune on your part it was me. I'm not a very good person, I'm biased, cowardly, sneaky, and I don't trust easily." She sucked in a big, noisy breath. "But I loved – _love_ – my family. You're family, Dean. I'll learn how to be a good person for you if you'll have me."

Dean was the type of bloke who believed people could change. Dean was also somebody who knew how important family was. He also liked to think he could tell when someone was being insincere. Gemma's tears were still falling. She'd paid careful attention as he talked about his family. She was promising to become someone better than she was now for him.

Dean realized he would be more than happy to call her family.

Meeting her gaze head on, he declared, "I'll have you, Gemma. I'll call you my cousin and never deny to anyone that you're my family."

Her hands flew to her mouth, shock and relief fighting for dominance in her eyes. Dean leaned in, embracing her and baby Nadine. When Gemma returned the hug, Dean felt like he'd done the right thing.


	5. The Miracle of the Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Euphemia Potter finds out she's going to be a mother.

"You're pregnant."

The words sounded like Christmas bells to Euphemia Potter's ears, cheery, bright, and special. Mouth working air for a moment, she put a hand to her abdomen and just stared at Healer Bell. Finally, when her voice returned, she asked, "You're certain? This isn't – It's not a – a –"

Healer Bell laid his plump hand on her knee and said, "I'm certain, Euphemia. I even had two tests done for your peace of mind, just to make sure."

"Thank you," Euphemia warbled. Through watery eyes, she said, "Monty will be so happy when he hears…"

The man grinned. "No doubt there," he agreed. "Knowing Old Monty, he'll probably be racing all over Hogsmeade telling everyone who will listen before the day is out."

She giggled. "Most definitely!"

Making further small talk with her Healer, Euphemia couldn't help but touch her stomach now and again. Every time she did, it felt like pixies were fluttering inside. Soon, she thought, it would be her baby creating those fluttery feelings, not her twisting innards. Euphemia's heart palpated as a wave of warmth washed through her.

'In no time at all, I'll be holding you in my arms, my miracle.'


	6. The First Day of The Rest of your Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Filius Flitwick stands up for himself for the first time.

Filius Flitwick felt especially small today. He was quite used to feeling tiny (almost all people were taller and bigger than he was, after all) but today was worst than most. It was undoubtedly due to his new housemates. Around him, they chattered about what they were looking forward to and paid little attention to where they were going – gawping instead at Hogwarts grand interior. Filius was having to be unusually careful about where he stepped. Since they weren't paying attention, he had to for them. Unless he wanted to be trampled, anyway.

He tried not to be upset with his housemates. They had all just met the other night, after all. They weren't even acquaintances yet. Even so, he couldn't help but wish they were more… Well, like his family (which was terribly unfair of him, he knew. They didn't know Filius or love him like his parents or Grandfather did, yet even an eighth-Goblin wizard couldn't help but be irrational now and again). Thinking of home, Filius thought of how his family made a habit of stooping and crouching to his height when they spoke to him and keeping the things he needed within his reach (and if not in his reach, charmed to become within his reach should he need it). He'd always appreciated all they did to make him feel comfortable and safe.

But he was also beginning to see why they insisted on warning Filius over and over again that he was going to have to be careful, once he got to Hogwarts. No one here cared a whit that he was smaller than average. They were all quite self-centered, actually. Filius tried to not let that bother him. He could get that way from time to time too. He was probably being self-centered right now, wishing they'd pay him more care as they headed toward their first Charms lesson.

The thought of the coming class perked Filius's mood right up. He really loved charms. All the things they could do was just brilliant! A bit of a bounce came to his step, he couldn't wait to see what their first lesson would hold. He did hope they would get to try a spell. Herbology had been such a disappointment yesterday. They'd spent the whole time taking notes on the year's curriculum rather than doing anything interesting with the many peculiar and familiar plants surrounding them.

Suddenly, Filius's was jerked backward by someone stepping on his robe. Knocked off balance, he fell hard onto his knees.

"Oh! I'm sorry Filius!" cried one of the girls.

Pushing himself off the ground, Filius gave his hands a perfunctory once-over before smiling at the girl, a ginger he thought might be named Abby or Addy Moon. "It's quite alright," he said. "I should have watched where I was going better."

"But you're–" Abby clamped her mouth shut, face turning bright red.

One of his dormmates, a rotund Muggleborn, who Filius couldn't recall the name of for the life of him, sighed. "Since the elephant in the room has been brought up…" He pushed the shaggy bangs of his bowl-cut out of his eyes, then gave Filius a critical look up and down. His expression turned to one of ruthless determination (though, he spoke in a hushed, apologetic tone). "It's probably rude to ask this, but why are you so small? Are you a midget? Like in those sideshows?"

He blinked. Filius had no clue what a midget was or why anyone would go to see one in a sideshow. "No," he replied. "I'm just an eighth Goblin. Unfortunately, you could say, I inherited their height rather than my full wizard father's."

"Goblin? Like the ones at the bank?" the boy returned, face scrunching in confusion. "But they're–" he slapped a hand over his mouth. Fat cheeks now a blotchy crimson.

Moon laughed. "Now who's putting their foot in their mouth?" she taunted.

Filius tried not to feel offended. He knew most people didn't find Goblins to be the most pleasing of figures to look at, but he loved them, his heritage, his _family_ , all the same. "It's fine," he said instead. But, even so, Filius took out his wand and gave it a little wave. "Next time, it won't be, however."

Another of his dormmates laughed. "Are you threatening Barney? What are you going to do? Bite his ankles?" he jeered, face not the least bit playful.

He hardened his expression. Filius had been insulted before for his height, but this was the first time he didn't just have to take it. He glanced to the wand he held in his hand. In the past Filius had only coarse words, his ineffectual fists and blunted teeth to fight back with, now, he had a wand like a proper wizard. Him and this other boy, they were equals. Briefly, he recalled his grandfather's lessons on dueling. One, in particular, came back to Filius:

" _Size doesn't much matter in a duel, Filius. It's about having a quick hand and a clever mind._ "

Positioning his feet racing-broom fast, Filius shouted a spell he recalled seeing in his charm books the other day. "Aqua Eructo!" A stream of water shot from his wand, hitting Filius's dormmate in the face.

The boy sputtered, and then, in his haste to get out of the stream's way, tripped and fell on his bum. The rest of his housemates started to snicker and mock Filius's dormmate, putting him in his place for ever underestimating Filius because of his size. Filius tried not to look too smug, but when Moon and the Muggleborn-boy, Barney, returned their gaze to him, eyes appreciative, he couldn't stop himself from saying, "My grandfather was a renowned duelist, you know? He's taught me quite a bit already."

"That's wicked!" Moon told him, excited and eager to know more. "Is he the one who taught you that spell too?"

Filius tried not to grin too widely as he said, "Well, actually, I taught that one myself from our charms book…"


	7. A Bad Day (Someday) Will be a Good Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny Weasley breaks up with her first boyfriend.

Walking toward the library to study for transfiguration class, Ginny Weasley spotted a familiar figure and grinned. A little way down the hall was her boyfriend. Pleasure unfurled inside of her. Ginny hadn't seen him for more than a few minutes at a time since the quidditch game a couple of days ago. She knew for a fact he had no classes right now and while she really should be prepping for her upcoming exam, she'd be happy to slack off for an hour or so if it meant they could spend some time together alone.

"Michael! Michael!" Ginny shouted, waving an arm to catch his attention.

He glanced her way and then, surprisingly, turned completely away. Blinking a couple of times to make sure she hadn't imagined things, Ginny called once more, "Michael?"

Instead of stopping at his name, he began to hurry away to who knew where. Irritation ignited inside of her. Hitching her satchel higher on her shoulder, she roared, "Michael _Corner_!" and began to hurry after him.

While he kept his steady, clipped pace, Ginny managed to catch up. Between gulps of air, she snapped, "Michael! Why'd you ignore me like that?"

He looked to her once. "What do you mean?" he asked.

Ginny puffed out her cheeks. She knew he was playing dumb. "That's great, Michael, treat me like I'm a dunderhead. I _saw_ you look at me before you started to walk away!"

Stuffing his hands into his slacks, he tucked his chin close to his chest and grumbled, "Whatever."

Over his piss-poor attitude, Ginny grabbed Michael's arm and forced him to face her. Momentarily satisfied now that his glower was on her, she placed her hands on her hip and narrowed her eyes. "What's wrong?"

Michael's dark eyes turned even darker. "What's _wrong_?" he snarled. "I think we _both_ know what's wrong! My girlfriend beat me at quidditch! That's not supposed to happen!"

She blinked. Confusion taking the place of her evaporating anger. "Huh?" she said. "You're upset about that?"

"Yes!"

Ginny honestly wasn't following. Sure, Gryffindor's quidditch team had beat Ravenclaw's, but she hadn't _specifically_ outdone Michael. Michael wasn't Ravenclaw's seeker! Even then, why would he be so worked up about it? Everyone lost once in a while. Scrunching her nose, Ginny asked, "What's there to be upset about? Everyone loses now and then."

"You're my girlfriend! You shouldn't have beat me! You made me look bad!" Michael argued.

She gaped at him for a moment, then, righteous rage began to flood through her so fast she began to shake. " _I_ made you look bad?" she hissed. "I think you better rethink that, Michael, and _apologize_ right now!"

He crossed his arms. "No!" he said. "You did! You shouldn't be upstaging me and my team like that as my girlfriend! That's wrong!"

"It's not wrong! You're wrong for wanting me to hold back for your stupid ego!"

Michael narrowed his eyes. "My ego? It has nothing to with that! Girlfriends are supposed to support their boyfriends, not beat them so they're the laughingstock of their team!"

Ginny couldn't resist the urge any longer. She shoved Michael and yelled, "You're a real prat! Merlin! I can't believe I haven't noticed this until now!"

"Well, you're a cunt!" he snapped. "Frigid and shrill too!"

She balled her hands into fists. "Am not!" Reaching for her wand, Ginny told him, "If you don't take it back right now, you're going to regret it, Corner."

He jutted his chin out and sneered. "Yeah? Well, Anteoculatia!" he shouted.

Ginny gave a high-pitched shriek as she barely managed to get out of the path of his hex. Now sprawled out on the stone floor, she didn't bother to even blow her hair out of her face before she pointed her wand at Michael. "Densaugeo!"

Unlike her, Michael did not get out of the spell's path in time. He gave a shout as it clipped his shoulder. Falling to his knees, he groaned as his teeth began to elongate at an alarming rate. Getting up as Michael attempted to speak the counter correctly around his now too-long teeth, Ginny said, "We're done, Corner. I don't want to see you anywhere near me _at all_ for the next month or two."

He could only glare at her and make small, angry huffing noises. She was sure he was thinking of a million and one hexes he wanted to use on her right now. Some of them might not even be legal, she noted. His voracious Ravenclaw mind often caused him to delve into books full of less than light subjects. Honestly, Ginny had never thought much of that. Not until now, anyway.

She was glad she'd managed to dodge his hex.

Finished with her assessment, Ginny spun on her heel and began to walk away. After a few moments, she faltered ever so slightly. As much as she hated Michael, Ginny couldn't in good conscience just leave him there to get stuck to the ground because of his growing teeth. Looking over her shoulder at her ex-boyfriend, she told him, "I'd go see Madam Pomfrey if I were you. Soon your teeth will be so long and heavy you won't be able to even walk anymore."

Angrily, Michael staggered to his feet. He glared at her some more before he began to shamble off in the direction of the infirmary. Finally feeling safe once more, she reholstering her wand. Ginny then scurried off into a lesser corridor away from the main traffic of Hogwarts. Walking down the curvy hall for a while, she found a suit of armor to hide behind and sat down. Bringing her knees close to her chest, she pressed her face into their bony edges and did her damnedest not to cry.

An arse like Michael Corner didn't deserve her tears. But it _hurt._ Someone she thought she loved completely, and thought loved her back the same, really hadn't. He'd only loved her as long as he could believe he was superior, and would only love her once again if she _apologized_ for being better than he was at something. Knees now slick and hot with her tears, Ginny didn't bother to muffle her sob.

Bugger love, she thought, if it was going to always come with conditionals like it did with Michael.


	8. Dark Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Horace Slughorn worries for the future.

Horace Slughorn poured himself another glass of punch. It was very good, he thought. He liked the note of lemon it held. He'd have to make a point of thanking the house elves come morning. Sipping at the punch, he took a brief moment to look over his initiates. Horace sighed at the sight of them. They'd all divided into house groups again. He thought they'd fixed that during the last Slug Club meeting! For a moment, he frowned. He felt irrationally put out by the children. It was like they didn't even _care_ that he was giving them a leg up in the world outside of Hogwarts!

Pushing off from the hors d'oeuvres table, Horace decided if they weren't going to mingle on their own, he'd have to go around and prompt them to. He plastered on a smile before heading toward his snakes. Truthfully, they were his least favorite of the groups gathered, but he thought he had something would make one of the gathered leave her group for the Gryffindors. As he came closer to them, he was unsurprised to see they'd sequestered themselves to the darkest corner of the room. They were such a brooding bunch, these ones, he'd picked. Perhaps he should invite the older of the two Cornfoot boys to the next club meeting. There wasn't anything particularly special about him, he was an average student and his father just a shopkeeper for a parchment and quill shop, but he was good-humored and talkative. If anyone could get the ball rolling, so to speak, it would be him.

Now upon his students, he clapped a hand on Dwayne Rosier's shoulder and smiled at a nervous-faced Lucretia and bored-looking Walburga Black. "How goes it, Mister Rosier? Miss Black and Black?"

"Well, sir," Lucretia answered softly.

Bobbing his head exuberantly, Horace put on a cheerful grin before saying, "You know, Miss Black," looking at Walburga as he did so, "Mister Brocklehurst over there–" he pointed at the boy, who was listing in the middle of the classroom with a cup of punch in hand, "–has been working on some delightful spells. A few are charms which may be useful for those who spend as much time studying the stars as you do."

Walburga's eyes kindled with interest as her gaze moved to the boy. However, just as quickly as that interest had sparked, it was doused when Mister Rosier made a derisive noise. " _Richard_ Brocklehurst?" he asked, sneering. "He's the one who's older sister ran off with a Muggle last spring, isn't he?"

"You're right," Walburga replied after sharing a look with her cousin, who nodded her agreement. She sighed. "Shame. Now they're all tainted."

Horace's heart gave a small twinge. He was pureblood, just like these children before him, but all that talk about blood, families rendered untouchables by the actions of one, and the true _hate_ they emoted with their eyes always made him uneasy. Blood, he'd always felt, while a good indication of where one's talents and strengths laid, was only half as important as the promise one showed for a successful future. Horace chuckled weakly. Perhaps he could turn this around. They were still young yet and as their professor, his words just might have an effect on the girl's opinion of her fellow student.

"Now, surely that's not true! A _whole_ family can't be ruined because of the transgression of one."

Lucretia's pale eyes turned on Horace, something like pity in them. "I thought that once," she told him. "Yet it is true, sir. Father says if families do not take some kind of action, such as publicly denouncing their wayward members, then it means they condone it. The Brocklehursts have said not a thing about their daughter's elopement, so one can only assume they approve."

Expression dark, Walburga muttered, "The only way their family could fix things now is if they disown her."

Rosier turned his head. "Blacks do that, don't they? Right from the start." He smiled. "It seems to work well. I've never heard anyone accuse you all of being anything less than proper."

Walburga lifted her chin as a pleased smirk curved her lips. "We Blacks don't stand for anything but the best." She turned her gaze on her cousin. "Isn't that right, Lucretia?"

Lucretia's face, a more delicate version of her cousin's, became as unreadable as stone. "Yes," she whispered. Lowering her gaze, she whispered, "Only the best are allowed to carry the Black name."

For a short while longer, Horace listened to the three as they conversed. It was both telling and frightening. It once again reminded Horace why everyone seemed so set to believe Slytherin was the home of dark wizards in training. The way Rosier and the Blacks spoke, with definitives and hard edges that broke no room for arguments about blood and what constituted traitors and inferiors, was unnerving. They were hardly sixteen, but their opinions were set. They _believed_ what they said.

Horace began to sweat beneath the collar of his shirt. Merlin help them all, these children were going to rule the world.


	9. A Day to Celebrate

One of Irma Pince's earliest memory was of sitting on her Muggle grandfather's lap. The circumstances of how she came to be there are lost to time, but she did remember feeling very pleased to be sitting there. With only one of him, three brothers, and close to a dozen cousins, getting to sit on _Zayde's_ lap was a rare and special treat. Irma could also recall that all of her siblings and cousins had been crowded around her grandfather's feet. Their mostly brown eye reflecting back the flicker of the menorah's lit candles placed behind her and _Zayde._ She remembered how her grandfather reached into an open wooden chest beside his lounge chair and pulled out an old, but well cared for storybook. He ran a large, shaky hand down the plain navy cover and said, "Irma I want you to turn the pages for me while I read."

"Yes, _Zayde._ " She'd been overjoyed at being given the task. Her grandfather's hands always shook, she remembered, and he often had _Bubbe_ do things like that for him. For him to ask her meant he trusted her a lot, like he trusted her Mummy, aunts, and uncles, and oldest cousin, Paul. Before Irma could even flip the cover, however, her grandfather laid his big hand over her tiny one. She looked up at him.

His age-dulled eyes were intense and almost reproachful as he told her, "This is a very special book, Irma. It holds our history. Why we celebrate Hanukkah. You must turn every page very carefully."

Irma had nodded, making sure she looked just as serious as he did as she replied, "Yes, _Zayde_."

He'd been satisfied that time and let her open the book. As the story of the brave Maccabees washed over her, Irma had begun to ponder if other books deserved the same reverence as the history book her grandfather read to her and their family from every time they gathered for Hanukkah. It did not take long for her to decide, yes, all books did. Even if they didn't hold the history of a people in them, they often held something just as – if not more important inside their pages.

Now, almost seventy years past that day, she wished there was a way to impress upon Hogwarts's students what she knew. Books were a gift from God and they deserved better than having food smashed between their pages and ineligible notes crammed in the margins. Snatching a book on winged horses from between the ink-stained hands of a fourth-year boy named Anthony Goldstein she shrieked, "What do you think you're doing!"

He frowned at her. "Writing a paper for my 'creature's class?"

Grabbing one of his dirty hands, she yanked high in the air. "Not with hands like these! Just look at them! Merlin only knows what kind of irreparable damage it would do to the pages!"

Expression sullen, the boy looked away and muttered something beneath his breath.

Irma would not stand for such behavior. "If you have something to say, young man, say it. Do _not_ mumble."

He lifted his chin. "I _said_ ," he began, "it's just a book on flying horses. Not a Torah or something."

"That may be, Mister Goldstein, but it is not just the Torah, or any religious text, that only deserves to be handled with care. _All_ books hold something important in them."

The boy blinked. "You know what the Torah is?"

Irma rolled her eyes and tucked the confiscated book beneath her arm. The idiocy of the children never ceased to amaze her. What kind of librarian (and Jew, for that matter) would she be if she didn't? "Is that such a surprise?" she asked sourly.

Mister Goldstein's ears flushed red. "Erh," he mumbled. "It's just whenever I talked about it the other year when I was getting ready for my Bar Mitzvah, my friends and housemates always looked at me strangely. They hardly even knew what Hanukkah was when I tried to explain it and Judaism."

With some hesitation, Irma slipped into the seat across from the boy. She placed the book she had confiscated from him between them. "There are not many magical Jews in England. Growing up, the only magical ones I knew of were my mother, brothers, myself, and a pair of twin Muggleborns a few years beneath me. I… I'm very far removed from my schooldays, I know, but I've not forgotten what it was like."

Even now, as an old woman with graying hair and dulled vision, she could still recall how uncomfortable she'd felt around Christmas time at Hogwarts when other students were talking about their families' Christmas traditions and she had nothing to contribute. With her father dead before she was even born, there had never been a chance for her to celebrate Christmas. Her mother would never hear of it, either, when she or her brothers asked if they could. Just thinking of the holiday hurt their mother. Christmas, Irma would learn later from her brothers, had been their father's favorite holiday. For their mother, celebrating it would have only made his absence a more keen pain than it already was.

The boy in front of her sighed, face one of dejection. "Sometimes, I think it makes me the odd one out even among the other Muggleborns in my house."

Irma felt stricken. She didn't know what to say to that. She wasn't a Muggleborn. Nor was she really good at consoling others. It was one, among many reasons, for why she'd never married or had children. She and people rarely mixed well. Pushing the book on winged horses back toward Mister Goldstein, she said, "Chin up, young man. I'm sure that's not the case."

His face was still doubtful, but Mister Goldstein said no more as he looked at the book she'd nudged back toward him. "I can read this now? Even though my hands are still covered in ink?"

She reached for her wand. "Hands out, if you will." He flashed her a confused look but did as she asked. "Scourgify." Almost instantly, his hands were cleaned of all the black spots that previously marred his skin. "There," she said. Then, incapable of helping herself, she added, "I expect the next time you come to use one of my books you'll make sure your hands are clean before touching them."

The boy's lips lifted with the faintest of grins. "Yes, Madam Pince." Then, ducking his head, he asked, "Ah, I know you're a busy person and all with the library, but… Could I come by sometime when you're not as busy so we can celebrate the last couple days of Hannukah together? It's kind of lonely doing it on my own."

Irma felt touched by the question. Not even her brothers bothered to ask if she'd like to come by to celebrate the holiday with them and their families anymore. Smiling at him, she said, "You may. In fact, it would please me greatly if you came by tonight even. How does after dinner sound?"

His eyes lit up with pleasure and surprise. "Brilliant, Madam Pince."


	10. Holiday Bliss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James Sirius Potter helps his sister out of a bind.

James Sirius Potter kept his face impassive as the onslaught of shrill shouts on his ears fell to a close.

"– _heaven and nature sing_ _!_ "

Thank Merlin! It was over!

Finally able to turn away from the collection of ragtag students he let his features show the anguish he'd been hiding as he shared a look with his sister. Lily's return expression was just as pained. He raised an eyebrow, silently asking if Lily wanted to be the first to speak to the children. In response, Lily shook her head. He sighed. He should have expected as much, he supposed. James had been asked to show up tonight to consult, after all. Returning his gaze to the Frog Choir, he put on his best smile as he said, "That was… s _omething,_ kids!" Taking a step forward, he clasped his hands in front of him and pushed his smile wider as he said, "But I think it could use a little work still."

Eyes roving over their young, mostly attentive faces, James mentally consoled himself with the fact they all at least looked receptive to what he was saying. "I know Professor Potter probably told you all before, but I think it deserves mentioning once again, projecting your voice and _shouting_ are two different things." Moving toward the students, he gestured for a Hufflepuff firstie in the front row to come to his side.

As the child let their hair fall into their face in a display of shyness, James took them lightly by the shoulders and positioned them in front of him. Pointing at their middle, he began to talk anatomy. "To project, you want to sing with your diaphragm…"

-v-v-v-

The kids long gone, James settled into the chair of an empty desk with a groan.

Taking a seat on the desk in front of him, Lily reached into her robes and pulled out a silver flask. James's startled out of his slouch into something close to ramrod straight. His eyes darted around the room for any sign of a presence that wasn't their own. He didn't know too many professors at Hogwarts (a lot of turn over had happened in the past decade), but he wouldn't be surprised at all if one or two were animagus and liked to slink into rooms to spy on students and fellow teachers alike. "Lily!" he cried. "You're a professor!"

His sister rolled her eyes as she unscrewed the cap. "Please, James," she said. "Get your head out of your arse. There's no one here but us. The last person to walk the halls with an invisibility cloak was Albus." Voice taking on a darker tone, she muttered, "And if the past fifteen years are anything to go by, there's little chance he'll be popping out to shout 'surprise!' ever again."

James hated it, but Lily made a valid point. He motioned for her to hand the flask to him. It passed from her fingers easily enough to his and James took a swing, only to pull a face. "Tequilla? What kind of drink is this to keep in a flask?"

Lily snatched it back and scowled. "The type one who shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth drinks!"

He put ups his hands. "Sorry!"

"Whatever," his sister grunted as she took one more gulp before putting it away. They sat in silence then, both letting the burn of the tequila mellow. "So," Lily began, "how likely do you think it will be that they'll be ready in time for the leaving feast before Holidays?"

James breathed in deeply, holding it in as he thought over Lily's question. Finally, he released it in a low hiss and said, "They won't be a laughing stock if you make sure they all come here to practice every day for at least an hour or two until then."

Lily nodded. Then, shoulders drooping, she said, "I thought this would be an easy club to run. I mean, I used to watch you practice all the time… You made it look so effortless. Professor Flitwick hardly ever had to say a thing to anyone in the choir then about correcting this or that."

James chuckled. "I think you're misremembering, Lily. He corrected us all the time."

Her brow furrowed. "Really? I could have sworn…"

"I guess you never realized, huh?" James reached across the desktop to grab his sister's hand and give it a squeeze. "I only invited you to the practices where we nearly had the song we were learning mastered." He smirked. "I wanted to show off, not get teased."

Lily's mouth fell open. "No!" she gasped. Expression twisting with anger, she punched him in the shoulder. "You prat! You tricked me and now! Look! Look! I'm going to make a fool of not only myself, but those _children_ in front of the entire school!"

James got to his feet and grabbed Lilly by her arms. "It's alright!" he shouted over her. "You're not going to be doing this alone!" He really did feel bad now. He'd never meant to make being a part of the Frog Choir look _easy_ , he just hadn't wanted Lily to rib him when his voice fell flat or he missed his cue.

"What does that mean?" Lily demanded testily.

He sighed and let his eyes fall closed. Oh, Bridget was going to be _furious_. He had promised weeks ago to accompany her to her family's Christmas party on the twenty-second. He hoped his fiancée didn't kick him out of their bed until New Years like she did last year after he got into a screaming match with Lily over her latest divorce last Christmas Eve.

"I'll help you out," he said. Opening his eyes, James smiled at the astonished look on his sister's face.

"Truly? _Every day_ you'll show up for practice at seven o'clock sharp?"

"Yes."

Lily threw her arms around him. "Oh! James! Thank you! Thank you!"

Hugging his sister, he said, "What are big brothers for?"

Pulling back, she flashed him a cheeky smile. "They're for toting around shopping bags, picking you up from pubs when you've drunk too much, and getting them out of messes _they_ got you into in the first place."

He rolled his eyes. "Of course."


	11. A Day to Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katie Bell-Wood reminisces.

"What was your greatest accomplishment in life?" the young, pimply-faced reporter from _Quidditch Weekly_ asked.

It was on the tip of Katie Bell-Wood's tongue to say winning the Quidditch World Cup alongside her husband. It was probably what the reporter expected her to say too. He was interviewing her in preparation for the latest World Cup, after all. Yet, with ninety-nine years now behind her, Katie saw that there was one moment that towered above even that wonderous win.

Meeting the young reporter's eager gaze, she said, "My greatest accomplishment was teaching my goddaughter how to do loops on a broom."

The boy's dark, thick eyebrows went high on his forehead. A small smile starting at the corners of her mouth, Katie explained, "I know, it sounds trite. But let me explain and see if I can't make you understand why…"

_It was a balmy autumn day and little Lucy was over for the afternoon. Her sister, Molly, had just gone off to her first year of Hogwarts a week ago and Percy had been feeling quite badly about his baby crying herself to sleep over her sister's absence every night since. To get Lucy's mind off Molly, he had asked Katie to take her goddaughter for the day and distract her from her loneliness._

_Katie was all too happy to agree. She could never get enough of the girls. It was probably wrong, but Katie was especially fond of Lucy. She was so big-hearted. Lucy loved all who loved her, sometimes, even more than they did her. There were, of course, downsides to such an open personality, she was hurt easily. Little things could bring her crashing to the ground and she'd be spitting up dirt for days._

_Today, Katie wanted to teach her goddaughter how to soar above it all_. _Smiling a closed mouth smile at the sulky redhead (it was surprising just how_ Weasley _she looked despite being adopted), she beckoned the seven-year-old close. When the girl only shuffled in place, Katie laughed. "Come on now! Don't you think your pity-party has gone on long enough?"_

_The girl's answering glare was as flinty and sharp as any spear. Katie deflected it with a beatific grin. "Well, then," she said. "Guess I won't be teaching you how to fly today after all!"_

_Lucy frowned. "I know how to fly!"_

_Katie gave the Nimbus in her hand a wave. "Yeah? How about on an_ adult _broom?"_

_Her goddaughter's expression turned mulish. "Brooms are brooms!"_

_"My dear girl, that's where you're wrong." Moving toward Lucy, she bent down to the seven-year-old's height and offered her the Nimbus. "On this one, you can_ soar. _"_

_Uncertain fingers wrapped around the hilt of the broom. "How high?" she asks._

_Katie's grin only grew. "High above anything that might be happening down here."_

_"Oh." Lucy's eyes shined. She knew exactly what Katie was getting at and she was elated by the idea._

_"So? Want to learn?"_

_"Yeah!"_

_Katie helped Lucy properly straddle the adult broom, but before the girl could kick off, she wrapped her hands around the girl's small ones and said, "You will want to be extremely careful when you kick off. Adult brooms are very touchy."_

_Lucy bobbed her head in agreement. "'Kay."_

_After she released the girl's hands, Katie got on her own broom and said, "Alright, let's go!"_

_Together, they pushed off. Lucy, thankfully, did not go very high in the process. Smirking at her goddaughter, Katie asked, "Wanna race around the house?"_

_The little girl's eyes shined. "Yes!"_

_Adjusting so she was in a racing position, Katie reminded Lucy, "Remember, the broom is touchy. You'll be flying much higher than you do usually as well. It's okay if you lose the first couple of races, alright? It's more important you make it around the house safely."_

_Kicking her feet a little, Lucy grunted, "Uh-huh. Can I count off?"_

_She eyed the girl. "Do you swear you'll be careful?"_

_"Yes!"_

_Katie sighed. There was no going back now. She just hoped Percy would forgive her if his daughter broke anything today. "Start counting."_

_Flashing a grin that was all teeth, Lucy counted, "One, two, three!"_

_They shot off. Katie quickly gained the lead, as she wasn't one to sit back and let others win – not even for goddaughters. It wasn't long at all before they were back where they started. However, instead of pouting (as her sister would have, Molly was an awfully sore loser), Lucy giggled madly and declared, "That was the best! I've never gone so fast before!"_

_Katie smiled back at the girl. "It's amazing, isn't it?"_

_Lucy wobbled over to Katie's side and asked, "Can you teach me how to do loops now, Aunt Katie? Please?"_

_"I don't know how much your father would like that."_

_The girl's eyes fluttered a fraction wider and her lower lip protruded outward in a rather adorable pout. "But Aunt Katie! If we always listened to Daddy, we'd be all as dull and boring as rocks!"_

_Katie frowned. "You've been spending too much time with your Uncle George."_

_"Anne_ is _my best friend. It'd be odd if I didn't spend a lot of time with Uncle George," the girl argued._

_She sighed. Some battles just weren't worth pursuing with Lucy. "Just don't say things like that around your father, it would hurt him."_

_"I know that!" Lucy cried, indignant._

_"Good."_

_"…So can I learn how to do a loop?"_

_Katie rolled her eyes upward, silently asking whoever might be up there watching, 'Can you believe this kid?' When finished, she looked back at her goddaughter and said, "Let's land. Then you can hop on my broom with me and I'll show you how."_

_Lucy shrieked in delight before dive-bombing toward the ground. It gave Katie a small heart attack as she hurried after the child, but it proved all for naught, as the girl landed quite expertly in the few seconds that it took her to catch up. As soon as her feet were touching the ground, Lucy was scrabbling into place in front of Katie on her Firebolt._

_She fondly gave the girl's ponytail a tug. This kid was destined for Gryffindor. "Hold tight now," Katie warned before taking off._

_As she flew around the field behind her and Oliver's home, she explained the mechanics that went into doing a loop, then demonstrated close to a half-dozen times before finally saying, "Alright, give it a try, Lucy."_

_Lucy beamed back at her before her expression did a one-eighty and took on a look of fierce determination. Positioning her tiny hands in a near-identical replica of Katie's only moments before, Lucy leaned forward and said, "One, two, three!"_

_They sped up, and soon, they were traveling in a perfect arch that Katie could feel would lead into a successful loop. Breathless as her goddaughter completed the loop, she wrapped her arms around the girl and praised, "Well done!"_

_The child's face flushed in pleasure. "Wanna do it again?"_

_Katie laughed. "Alright."_

_As they took off for another, loop, Lucy cried, "Bet I can do two in a row!"_

_Her stomach dropped and she nearly took control of the broom, fearing the girl's confidence was_ over _confidence_ , _but, in the end, decided to let it play out. Katie was well-versed enough in precarious flying to take over if things went wrong between the loops or during the second one. Surprisingly, she never had to take charge. Lucy brought them through each loop perfectly with a grace of someone twice as seasoned as her._

_-v-v-v-_

_"My, aren't you a quick learner?" Katie murmured after they finished riding brooms for the day._

_Lucy smirked. "Only 'cause I've been watching you since I was a baby, Aunt Katie!"_

_Katie swept the girl off the ground and onto her back. "Watching and doing are two different things, though, pet."_

_Her slim arms tightened around Katie's neck. "Huh. Never knew that."_

_She patted her goddaughter's knee. "Perhaps it's for the best. Confidence in yourself can do wonders."_

_"Hey, Aunt Katie, d'you think I could be a Quidditch player like you and Uncle Oliver when I grow up?"_

_Opening the back door of her home, Katie let the child slip down from her back. Meeting the girl's curious, hopeful gaze, she smiled. "You have quite the knack for flying already. If you practice hard and never give up, I have no doubt you could be one of the greatest."_

-v-v-v-v-v-

"As you can see, it really didn't have much to do with teaching Lucy how to do a loop on a broom, but more to do with inspiring her to become one of the greatest Quidditch players of all time," Katie finished.

The young man nodded. "I can see why you'd pick that moment over winning the Cup with your husband." He turned his gaze past her, to the shelf of dedicated to her sweet Lucy. It held photos of her with her Hogwarts Quidditch team, a couple of Little League Quidditch Medals she won over her childhood, an old, battered quaffle she always played with while at Katie and Oliver's home, as well as a final photo of her in Wimbourne Wasp uniform.

Finally, the _Quidditch Weekly_ reporter wrenched his eyes away and began to gather his things together. "It's a tragedy she died so young," he said.

Katie swallowed the small lump in her throat that formed at the thought of her goddaughter's death. "Lucy's death will always pain me, but I can say that I find comfort in the fact she died doing something she loved."

Offering his hand, the reporter said, "Sometimes, I think, finding small comforts like that are the best we can do when someone we love dies. Death can be so unfair."

"Thank you," Katie replied as she gripped the boy's hand. "Do make sure to write me if they decide to publish my story."

He smiled. "Of course, Missus Wood. But I want you to know I have no doubt this one will end up in the magazine."


	12. One Day Can Change Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyall Lupin makes the greatest mistake of his life.

Lyall Lupin carefully rearranged the small collection of photos on his desk. Today, he had a new one to add to the pictures. It was one of his boy, Remus, blowing out the candles on his fifth birthday cake. Leaning back in his chair, Lyall crossed his legs and grinned. The photo fit right in among the others. They were all very candid, caught by his hand, during some of the most special days of his life. There was one of his three closest friends from Hogwarts, the two Hufflepuffs, Martin Green and Kit Smith, his fellow Ravenclaw, Joseph Corner, all laughing and making fools of themselves as they got ready for the graduation ceremony, another photo was of his wife walking down the aisle on their wedding day, and after that one, a picture of her smiling while holding a two-day-old Remus on the front step of their home.

"Ah, you've added a new one, I see!" a voice from behind exclaimed. Lyall spun around in his chair to see his coworker, a proud bachelor, and ladies man, Henry Higgs, leaned far over his own desk, smirking.

Pushing himself out of the way of the pictures so the older man could see a little better, Lyall nodded. "I did. We had Remus's fifth birthday party last weekend and I just got the pictures back yesterday."

"He'll be a man in no time," Higgs replied.

Lyall smiled back. "Speaking from experience, are you?" he joked.

Higgs lifted himself from his desk. "Of a sort," he replied. "My sister's got kids. Four of them, actually, the twins graduated last spring from Hogwarts and the next youngest will be this spring. Funny thing is, every time I go to see her family, I keep expecting them to be as they were, yea-high with button noses, peering out the window by the front door, waiting for me."

He laughed. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask Higgs MORE about what it was like, watching children you all but saw born grow up, when the doors to the Control of Magical Creatures, or CoMC for short, department swung open.

Both of them turned their heads to see their boss, Virgilia Greengrass, march in with two aurors and an unkempt man on her heels. Turning around to face the two aurors, Greengrass pointed to a free desk chair in front of her office and said, "Right, have him take a seat there." Before she stepped into her office.

The aurors guided the unkempt fellow (who Lyall did not like the look of _at all_ ) to the chair. "Sit," one muttered.

The man did.

Frowning, Lyall narrowed his eyes in scrutiny. The ragged man was quite hard to get a read on, he wasn't tense, but he sat tall and his expression was mostly blank, other than his eyes, which were intense as they carefully moved across the room, taking in everything.

"Who's this?" Higgs called to Greengrass as she left her office with a box of files in hand.

Before she, or the aurors, could answer, the man did. "Fenrir Greyback." He grinned, showing off ugly, jumbled yellow teeth. "'Fraid I can't say it's a pleasure to meet you."

Higgs shared a frown with Lyall. He was quite sure Higgs sensed it too. There was something off about Greyback.

"What have you brought him here for?" Lyall asked as he got up from his desk.

When Greengrass said nothing in favor of sorting through the files in her box, one of the aurors, an older man that was balding, said, "When we were investigating what we think are werewolf maulings of two Muggle children, we found him wandering nearby."

Lyall's eyes snapped to Greyback once more, horrified at the thought he could be in the same room as a child-killer. The man's expression was even harder to read now. Though, that deterred Lyall little. He didn't really need to try and look for a crack in the man's mask to find the truth about his role in the children's 's whole person could tell Lyall one way or another if he was a werewolf, or what he appeared at a first glance, a slightly mental Muggle tramp.

There were things werewolves just couldn't hide no matter how hard they tried. Lyall first took in Greyback's clothes. They were ragged and dirty as any tramp's, yes, but they looked a bit like they'd been shredded by something rather than just ripped and worn from everyday wear. His face, now that Lyall was looking at it more carefully, had some light scars here and there. It was quite common from what Lyall knew for werewolves to be scarred like that. When in their beast form, they had a tendency to hurt themselves if they couldn't find prey. As for his eyes…

Lyall did his best not to let on that he was scared, then. There was yellow there, mingling with the brown of the rest of his irises. A sure sign, if he ever saw one, of a werewolf.

Muttering to herself as she flicked through the last of her gathered papers, Greengrass finally sighed and put them back in their box. "He's not in here. Without a wand and without a file with his name, I'd say he's telling the truth."

The balding auror nodded. "Thank you for looking, Missis Greengrass."

"We should get him to the obliviators," the other auror said.

Lyall's mouth went dry as he watched the two aurors pull Greyback to his feet. "Wait!" he cried. Everyone looked at him. Ducking his head just a little at all of the sudden attention, he said, "Not all werewolves register like they're supposed to…" His boss frowned at him and Lyall added, "Or, he could just be a new one. The full moon's just a day away. Why not lock him in a cell and see what happens?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Higgs snorted from behind. "The man doesn't even have a wand!"

The aurors began to chuckle a little, seeing humor where there was none. "We are very grateful for your department's help, Mister Lupin, but he's our person of interest. Leave what happens to him to us," the balding man lectured.

Lyall didn't like this. He was being outnumbered, and quickly. He was sure this man wasn't who he said he was and he feared greatly another child (perhaps one as young or as blond as his Remus) would become the victim of another mauling should they let him go. Desperately, he looked to his boss. "Greengrass, what do you say? Truly ask yourself, what harm would it do anyone for us to hold Mister Greyback twenty-four hours?" he deferred, hoping that she'd see reason where the others were failing to.

The woman's mouth twisted and her eyes became dark and steely. Oh no, that was a terrible sign. She likely thought he was a panicked idiot like the rest. "Everything checks out, Lupin. He's dressed like a Muggle, says he's one too, has no wand and he's not in the registry. It would be a waste of resources to hold him in a cell for no other reason than because you're being paranoid."

His stomach rolled. Didn't they _understand_? Two children were already dead, a third could be next! "Paranoid?" he seethed. "You think I'm being paranoid? What about those children who are already dead? The ones who could be next if we aren't careful here!"

The aurors looked between each other and the younger of the two began to guide the frowning Greyback out of CoMC's department. Lyall couldn't stand it. They were going to let that _monster_ go!

"Since when did we decide the lives of children are worth less than an animal's? Everyone knows werewolves are soulless! Evil! They deserve nothing but death! Yet!" He pointed toward Greyback as the last sliver of him disappeared behind CoMC's doors. " _You're going to let him go free!_ "

-v-v-v-

Not even a minute after the final auror's departure, Lyall's boss ordered him to go into her office. Lyall would do so and he would stand there, before her desk, letting her reprimand wash over him like the cascade of a waterfall. By lunch time, Lyall would hear about Fenrir Greyback's disappearance through the Ministry rumor mill. When he returned to his department, Greengrass, Higgs, and all his other coworkers would be pale and withdrawn, knowing just as well as he did they had buggered everything. The only consolation Lyall would be able to take from the situation was he'd fought against Greyback's release.

By the next morning, that consolation he felt would mean nothing. His son, a bright, caring, _good_ little boy was now a werewolf.

Lyall regretted saying anything at all.


	13. A Wonderfully Awful Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Millicent Bulstrode and Maxine O'Flaherty decide to take the Dark Mark.

At first glance, Millicent Bulstrode and Maxine O'Flaherty had nothing in common. Where Millicent was pure, Maxine was muddied by a Muggleborn grandfather. Where Millicent was younger, large, dark, and indelicate, Maxine was older, lithe, copper-haired, and light on her feet. Where Millicent was a Slytherin, proud, and vocal about her beliefs, Maxine was a Hufflepuff, proud, and evasive when asked what she thought of blood supremacy.

What they had in common, between them, however, was the mark they bore on their arms. Their reasons for taking the mark was also something the two shared. Maxine and Millicent both took their marks because of the men (who really weren't much more than boys) they loved.

-v-v-v-

Millicent did her best to be an exemplary Pureblood woman. She tried to be poised, contained, deferential to her betters, and cool toward her lessers. Unluckily for her, Millicent simply wasn't _built_ that way. She was too big-boned and loud to ever pull off being graceful and put-together like Daphne Greengrass or Pansy Parkinson and she also had a nasty habit of arguing with anyone she didn't agree with completely and the only thing she was really good at was making sure her lessers know she knew they were (though, her mother wished she'd stop being so _physical_ about it).

Unthinkingly, Millicent poured more cream into her tea. Her hands seemed to have a mind of their own at the moment, unfortunately. Besides, it would be easy enough to vanish the drink and pour herself another cup _after_ she figured out what Vincent Crabbed trying to do. In all honesty, it was quite the surprise that Vincent offered _her_ the opportunity to become a Death Eater. Especially when he had at least a dozen or so more exemplary Pureblood ladies to choose from, or frankly, his best mate, Gregory Goyle. Unable to keep the puzzlement off her face, Millicent said, "Out of everyone you could invite to join you, you want me?"

Vincent, unusually jittery, nodded. "You're strong, Millicent. I just know our Lord would be pleased to have a witch like yourself fighting for him."

Millicent furrowed her brows. She knew there had to be more to this invitation. "Gregory is quite strong too, _and_ your best mate." She didn't add 'unlike me' as she wanted to, because she felt he knew it just as well as she did.

"Millicent…" Vincent sighed. He got to his feet and came around the table to stand above her. Staring up at him, Millicent saw what she thought may be fear flash across his face and, then, it was far too close for Milicent to read as she felt his warm lips press against her own.

She jumped from her chair, astonished. She'd never realized! Oh, how had she _never_?

He turned his head. "I suppose that's a no?"

The air left her lungs. A feeling a bit like terror and exhilaration mixed together and caused her heart to stutter as she herself stumbled toward Vincent. Millicent grabbed Vincent's hand, and he, in turn, kept her from falling as she clumsily wrapped her other arm around his neck and kissed him. It only took a second for him to return the embrace. Finally, after what Millicent would later remember as the best two minutes of her life, he pulled back and smiled.

"I suppose this is a yes?"

She grinned back. "We'll be the next Bellatrix and Rabastan Lestrange."

-v-v-v-

Maxine opened her eyes at the sensation of warm palms curling around her toes. She smiled when saw her boyfriend, Adrian Pucey, massaging her feet. "Hello," she said.

"'Lo," he returned.

Quietly, Maxine studied her lover. While his touch was as tender as ever, his expression was not the usual one of peacefulness he wore in her presence. She suspected dinner with his family had not gone well. Slipping her feet from his hold, Maxine sat up and moved across the sofa and nestled herself against his chest. "How was dinner with your father and brother?" she asked.

Adrian tensed.

She pulled away from him and felt her heart break at the sight of closed eyes and a trembling lower lip. Grasping her lover's face between her two hands, Maxine whispered, "Darling, what happened?"

"I sold my soul to the devil," Adrian admitted after a long pause.

Maxine gasped. "No!" she cried, making a grab for her boyfriend's arm.

He yanked it away from her, holding it above his head. "Maxine!" he yelled.

Her eyes snapped to his. Maxine went still at the grief, shame, and fear she saw in his eyes. She knew she had to be careful, this could ruin them if she tried to pry the story from Adrian the wrong way. "Love," she murmured. "Tell me what happened. Please, love. Don't hold it all in."

His lip quivered briefly. Then, his eyes turned hard as he said, "Okay."

Maneuvering herself into his lap, Maxine made the choice to rest her face against his shoulder and look away from him. She loved Adrian, but she didn't want to see how his horrifying experience would reflect across his face as he told her his story. Wrapping both his arms around her, Adrian carefully eased the sleeve hiding his mark up, showing it to Maxine.

Hesitantly, she touched it. He hissed. She kissed his neck and whispered, "Sorry."

"It's fine," he mumbled. "When I went to see Father and Randal, I didn't… I didn't know this is what he had planned for us. I thought it would be another night of nodding and agreeing as he ranted about this or that. T-Then…" he trailed off. Squeezing her a little tighter, Adrian whispered, "That _monster_ and his minions appeared. He started talking to everyone, riling them up, and then he looked to _us_. I knew there was no way I could escape. No way I could help Randal escape. He said all this stuff and I was just so–"

Maxine felt her lover shake with suppressed sobs. Pressing closer to him than ever before, she kissed his chin and urged, "Shh… You can tell me, darling."

He breathed in deeply. "Randal went first. It was so awful, watching him have it tattooed on his arm. He's just a _kid_ , for Merlin's sake! I still can't believe Father allowed it, Randal's not even sixteen! And then it was my turn. The monster smiled at me as he cursed me and then he expected me to _thank_ him after it was done! Maxine–"

"Do you think I could receive the mark as well?" Maxine cut in suddenly, surprising not only Adrian with her question. What was she saying? Maxine didn't want such a disgusting deformity! Yet Adrian hadn't wanted it either. He'd taken it because there was no choice. Maxine _did_ have one, however. Yet what she really wanted was to be able to follow her lover to hell and back. Without the mark, she would always be on the sidelines, forever worrying and waiting for him to return to her. With it… She'd be beside Adrian. Maxine would be forced to commit atrocities and spew lies, but she could guard his back and keep him safe.

Adrian was frowning, but something told her he understood even without an explanation. "Your grandfather was a Muggleborn," he said instead.

"My mother's line is exemplary," she countered. "My mother was wrong to marry my father, Father's mother was a traitor to our kind. I want to be better than them, I want to purge our world of the filth I descend from."

Her boyfriend nodded. "I'm sure my Lord would be pleased to have a follower who is so devoted to the cause."

"And you?" she asked.

He leaned in and kissed her. "It will be an honor to fight beside you."


	14. Neville Longbottom's Proudest Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neville Longbottom's Gran speaks words he thought he'd never hear from her.

Wiping the grit from his eyes, Neville Longbottom blinked blearily at the spread of food before him. He wasn't quite sure what to start with, there were just too many choices for his tired brain to pick from. Beside him, Susan accepted a platter of ham and put a couple of slices on her plate. Then, to Neville's surprise, on his plate too. He looked at her, silently questioning her actions.

Susan briefly glanced at him before she passed off the platter. "You've been staring at nothing for ten minutes now. I thought I'd help you out and pick something for you," she explained. "You need to eat."

"Thanks," Neville replied, reaching for his fork. The smell of it was starting to make him salivate with a hunger he was previously unaware of.

However, before he could so much as lift a forkful to his mouth a voice from behind barked, "Neville Longbottom!"

Instantly recognizing both the pitch and tone, Neville nearly fell face first into his plate of ham (the first real meal he's had since before the Battle) in his haste to get to his feet. He ducked his head to hide the blush on his cheeks as old classmates chuckled at his clumsiness. He ignored when one (Dean, maybe? They were talking so quietly for once) muttered, "Still the same old Neville!" He couldn't help but feel disappointed at the comment. Had slaying Nagini truly had so little impact on their opinion of him? Did they still see that chubby-faced first-year who couldn't so much stir a potion without messing it up somehow when they looked at Neville?

"Eh-hem," the voice from earlier grumbled.

Neville turned around and put on his best apologetic smile. "Hello, Gran."

The old woman narrowed her eyes in scrutiny. "You look a right mess," she said. "Haven't you taken a moment to clean up at all?"

He looked away, doing his best not to feel like a little boy caught coming into the house after an afternoon of making mud-pies. He just hadn't found the time to do more than a quick _Tergeo_ to clean off the blood and the worst of the grime. Right after the Battle, he'd chosen to take a couple of hours just to rest and come down from the high rather than wash up. Then, there had been a need for able-bodied witches and wizards to help with vital repairs and cleaning up the mess that was the grounds of Hogwarts. At that point, Neville had given up on the idea of thoroughly scrubbing himself raw, because they needed help and he'd just get dirty again anyway.

"Haven't had much time to," he said. "Or seen a point to."

Gran gave one of her _sniffs_ , making her disapproval clear, but allowing the subject to drop in the process. He relaxed a little. Glancing back to the table, he noticed the others were watching them. There wasn't any kind of malice in their eyes, just boredom and curiosity. Even so, Neville didn't like the idea of being a source of entertainment for them. He started to reach for his Gran's elbow, but stopped himself when she started to glare. Sheepish once more, Neville stuffed his hand in his pocket and said, "Was there something you needed, Gran? I plan to spend the rest of the day here, helping out with cleaning and fixing stuff after I have something to eat."

His grandmother continued to stare at him, something in her eye that made Neville feel very nervous. What did she want? For him to come home with her? He would, of course, if it were truly urgent, but he was needed here right now.

Softly, she said, "I hear you are the one that killed Voldemort's snake."

Neville nodded. "I did…"

"He did, Missus Longbottom! I watched, it was wicked!" Dean piped up from behind him.

"Neville's a real hero," Susan added as she continued to cut up her ham and eggs.

Gran's lips twitched. "Your father told me the very same, Miss Bones."

The young woman flashed Gran a smile. "We often think alike."

His grandmother nodded, amusement still clear on her face. Then, turning her attention back to Neville, she returned to her usual stern expression as she said, "Your parents would be very proud of you."

Neville gaped. Gran rarely gave such high praise. "T-Thank you," he whispered.

In a rare show of affection, his grandmother lifted her hand and caressed his still grimy cheek. "I'm proud of you as well, Neville."

He grinned widely. His cheeks flushed with pleasure as his heart swelled with pride. Gran _never_ said she was proud of him. At least, not in his living memory had she said such wonderful words. "Thank you, Gran," he said.

Face gentle, almost as gentle as he remembers it being when he was a little boy being held by her after a nightmare, his grandmother murmured, "I love you, Neville."

Tears spring to his eyes. Unable to help himself, Neville wrapped his arms around his grandmother. She went stiff for just a moment before returning the embrace. "Love you too, Gran."

Neville may not have realized it until now, but this was all he'd ever wanted. He could die a happy man, knowing he'd made his Gran proud and she loved him too.


	15. Everyday is a New Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olympe Maxime has just become Beauxbatons Academy of Magic's new headmistress.

_"Shoulders back, head held high, Miss Maxime. Be proud of who you are," Headmistress Leroy said._

_Olympe Maxime did not so much as have to raise her face to meet the elderly woman's gaze. It embarrassed her, but at twelve, she was already a couple of centimeters taller than her headmistress. Unable to hide the raw, dejected edge to her voice she asked, "Whatever do I have to proud of? Surely not my man-sized feet?"_

_Headmistress Leroy sighed. Dark eyes sorrowful, she whispered, "So, so many things_ mon cherie _."_

 _The half-giantess (who would_ never _admit aloud to being such) squirmed_. _She did so hate to see such a look on her mentor's weathered countenance. Headmistress Leroy should not pity an oaf like Olympe. It was only par for the course for an oddity such as Olympe to face the daily misery she did in the form of her fellow students' taunting._

 _"But, for today, we will take pride in your gentleness," Headmistress Leroy declared brightly as her thin, coral-painted lips stretched into a smile. "So many students your age treat my Puffskeins as little more than a stuffed toy to toss around and squeeze when they come to my office, but you? You,_ mon cherie, _treat my Basil and Tibby as if they're made of glass. They purr when they see you. They adore you."_

_Olympe blushed and looked away. It was lovely praise to receive from her mentor, but she was only so gentle because she knew her strength. It was more than above average and one errant swipe of her hand could–_

_Before she could finish her thought and deflect the compliment, Headmistress Leroy whispered, "Do you know what else needs a gentle touch, Miss Maxime?"_

_She met her mentor's gaze once more. Was this some kind of impromptu test? Uncertainly, she offered, "Bowtruckles?"_

_The old woman threw back her head and laughed. "Yes," she agreed, "they certainly do." Still smiling, she said, "But I was thinking of children. Children need someone who is sensitive and soft. It is only with the nurturing of such a person they grow up to be somebody who is strong enough to withstand the hardships of the world."_

_Olympe couldn't help the frown that was forming at the corners of her mouth. "Papa says children need a firm hand."_

_"Sometimes, yes," Headmistress Leroy allowed. "But it is as the English saying goes, you catch more flies with honey than vinegar." Reaching out with her gnarled hands, her mentor grasped Olympe's wide face in both. "You would make an extraordinary professor, Olympe," she told her._

_The girl stared at the headmistress in stunned silence. Searching the ancient features, she saw not even a hint of falsehood. Olympe did not see in herself what her mentor did, but she trusted Headmistress Leroy. If she saw a future as a professor for her, she would pursue that path. The old woman had never steered her wrong before_

_"I will take your opinion under consideration, Headmistress."_

-v-v-v-

Shoulders tossed back and head held high, Olympe strolled into the room that would be her office. Approaching the desk positioned in the center of the room, she let nostalgia overtake her as she ran a hand over the worn baroque-patterned fabric of the fainting couch before it. How many hours had she spent splayed out across this couch? Legs hanging over the edge and arms draped out sideways? Too few. Far too few. She closed her eyes and breathed through her grief. Some days, Olympe felt as if the pain of Headmistress Leroy's death would never dim. Five years on and it still felt as if she had received the news of her mentor's passing just yesterday.

She turned and looked back at the middle-aged man who hung back in the doorway. "The office looks exactly the same as Headmistress Leroy kept it," she remarked.

Professor Fischer's face became strained around the eyes. "Headmaster Broom turned his old office into the Headmaster's office when he was appointed after Annette's death." Clasping his hands behind his back, her old professor admitted, "You are the first to step foot in here since shortly after her funeral, Headmistress Maxime."

"Please, call me Olympe," she replied with a small smile. "We are colleagues now."

The man nodded. "Of course, Olympe." A bit of a smile playing on his lips, he said, "You may as well call me Paul, if we are going to be using first names."

Olympe returned his grin. In the back of her mind, she noted his smile made him look so much younger. In fact, Prof– _Paul_ looked nearly identical to the young professor she knew during her school days. "Thank you."

In the following silence, Paul's eyes began to bounce around the room. "If you like, I can look into interior designers–"

"There will be no need," Olympe cut in. "I quite like how Headmistress Leroy decorated it." She picked up a ceramic figurine from a bookshelf a few feet behind the desk. Her heart warmed when she realized it was the winged-horse statue she gifted the woman after her graduation from Beauxbatons's. "It's very classic, wouldn't you agree?"

The tension from Paul's shoulders ebbed away. "Yes, it is."

Returning to the desk, Olympe pulled her wand out from bun she had her hair in and silently enlarged both the desk and its chair. Taking a seat in the seat now suited to a woman of her stature, she said, "It was the Headmistress who put me on the path I am today."

Paul raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"She said I would make an extraordinary professor," Olympe told the man. Chuckling, she admitted, "I didn't agree at the time, but I trusted her. She… She saw the best in everyone."

Face gentle, the man nodded. "That she did."

"Thank you for showing me to my office, Paul," Olympe said.

The man smiled. "You're welcome," he replied. Then, quieter, he said, "Welcome to the staff, Olympe." And with that, he disappeared.

Olympe stared at the open doorway to her office for a moment. When she was marginally certain Paul would not be returning, she drew her wand up and used it to close the door. Releasing a little breath, Olympe leaned back in her chair and relaxed. She closed her eyes and pictured her old mentor's beatific smile.

"Thank you for your guidance, Headmistress Leroy."

 


	16. Dawn on a Funeral Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phineas Nigellus Black's journey to the man he becomes starts on the day of his brother's funeral.

The pads of Uncle Arcturus's fingers was rough – almost painfully so. They pressed into the tender flesh of Phineas Nigellus Black's chin as his uncle dragged his head up, forcing Phineas to meet his gaze in the process. Uncle Arcturus's eyes were intense; his pupils blown so wide they nearly eclipsed the storm-gray of his irises. All Phineas wanted to do was tear himself away from the man. Run away. Never ever look back. Yet, despite the urge, Phineas didn't. As the new heir of the Black family, he was not allowed to be a coward. Instead, he stood _I_ _mmobulus_ -still and silently begged his Uncle for freedom with his own two eyes.

Uncle Arcturus's gaze moved past Phineas briefly – to Sirius's casket, no doubt. When his eyes returned to Phineas's they were a fraction softer. His humanity, in the form of a sheen of tears, shined brightly through his otherwise hard visage. Even so, Phineas's uncle held fast to his chin.

"You are the eldest now," he said, "Be strong, Phineas. It is your duty to do our name proud."

Phineas's lip began to wobble. In response, Uncle Arcturus cut into his chin with the white of his nail. He did his best not to flinch at the sting, instead, Phineas stayed his shaking lip.

"Yessir," he whispered.

The man's hand finally fell away. "Good lad," he proclaimed, briefly patting Phineas's head before turning away.

From his spot, Phineas watched the man walk over to where his little sisters sat away from the other mourners. Watched as he crouched down in front of them and opened his hand, offering sweets. Phineas swallowed thickly. Once, he was included in such offers. Now…

Phineas would be babied no more. He was to grow up, step up to the expectations once laid on his brother's shoulders, and to excel.

There was no more room for folly on the part of the Black heir.


	17. Day One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quirinus Quirrell is offered a membership to an exclusive group.

Bringing his near-empty mug close to him, Quirinus Quirrell once again let his eyes rove over the unsavory crowd of the pub. It was made mostly of burly, stocky men. Quirinus didn't doubt they were also the type of men who used their tough exteriors to cow less… _muscular_ fellows. Fellows like himself. Fellows like the man who was supposed to have met him here nearly fifteen minutes ago. He did so hope Snape showed up soon.

This was not Quirinus's type of place (what he'd give to have met at a bookstore – or better yet, some country field away from people altogether). He jumped when a hand touched his shoulder. Head snapping around, he stared wide-eyed into the face a haggard barmaid. Smiling at him in a way that could only be described as motherly, the middle-aged woman raised her pitcher.

"'Nother glass?" she offered.

Hesitantly, Quirinus nodded. As she leaned in to pour him a fresh glass of butterbeer, he pointedly looked away from her chest. While many women wore low-scooping tops to get the attention of men, Quirinus had a feeling it was a part of this establishment's dress code. When she stood back up, he shot her a smile.

"Thank you."

She returned his grin. "Anytime, luv."

Someone – Snape – cleared his throat. Quirinus stood up. Offering his hand to Snape, he said, "Hello, it's nice to see you."

Snape raised one thin brow in response. Evidently, he was not interested in pleasantries. Fine. Quirinus didn't much like them himself either.

"I'll get 'nother glass," the barmaid muttered before walking off.

Quirinus let his hand fall to his side.

"Shall we take a seat?" Snape said, looking at the table.

Nodding, he sat back down as Snape slid into the seat across from him. Wrapping his hands around his now filled glass, Quirinus asked, "What did you want to meet with me for today?" Instead of, "Why were you late?"

Snape's dark eyes trained on him. "It has recently come to my, and my associates' attention, you are quite knowledgeable in Dark Arts."

Quirinus felt all the air leave his lungs. "You read my paper on Cursed Books?" he whispered, trying his best not to sound too excited. It wouldn't do for him to appear overeager. He knew as well as anyone from their schooldays Snape was a Slytherin, and this had the smell of one of the roundabouts Slytherins were so fond of using when discussing potentially delicate subjects with others.

Snape's lips pulled in a smirk. "I did," he said. "It was rather fascinating."

Quirinus let his compliment settle over him. It made him feel quite giddy. He'd very much like to talk about what fascinated Snape in particular, but if he wanted to have some kind of control over their discussion, he needed to show he was more than clever enough to see through the praise.

"I'm pleased to hear it," he said. Then, taking a moment to sip his butterbeer, he eyed Snape over the foam. When finished, he remarked, "But we're not here to talk about my paper today, are we?"

Snape crossed his legs and leaned back a little in his chair. Quirinus noted that he didn't look pleased, so much as he looked satisfied, that Quirinus read right through him. He wondered just what kind of test he'd passed in the other's mind to earn such a reaction. "No, were are not," Snape agreed.

"Then why are we here?"

Snape leaned in, gaze shifting around the room. "How much do you about the… _cause_."

Quirinus had no illusions about what side of the war Snape was on. He was a Slytherin. Slytherins were Death Eaters and Death Eater sympathizers. "Enough to know it doesn't want the likes of me," he said. "Mum's a Muggle."

The other man's dark eyes ignited with a fevered fire. "Oh, but that's where you're wrong."

He quirked a fair brow. "Oh?" Snape had to be mistaken (or lying). Death Eaters were targeting Muggleborns and Half-Bloods left and right.

"The cause is quite open to Half-Bloods," Snape said. "Especially the kind of our caliber."

Quirinus put his glass down. Parting his lips, he was ready to demand that Snape quit pulling his leg. It seemed impossible that Snape could be anything but Pureblood, (he was a Slytherin!) yet… He'd been friends with that Gryffindor Muggleborn, hadn't he? He'd even overheard once their friendship preceded Hogwarts. Putting aside his doubts, he said, "You're a Half-Blood?"

Snape's expression turned to one of mild amusement. "I don't advertise it, but my father is Muggle."

"Probably for the best, given the house you were in," Quirinus remarked, off-hand and testing the other for any chinks in his persona.

His gaze moved off to somewhere toward the bar as his lips quirked with displeasure. "My blood was not their biggest concern with me for most of our education."

Quirinus needed no clarification. He believed Snape. Not only had he been friendly with a Gryffindor, he'd been mates with a _Muggleborn_ Gryffindor. He could only begin to imagine the hassling his dormmates and housemates alike must have given him for his friendship. "Yet here you are today, despite all the issues they had with you," he said.

Snape met his gaze. "I will not lie and say it's a bloodless cause. We both know it does many deplorable things in pursuit of a better world, but…" he trailed off. That fevered fire in his eyes flared as he said, "But it offers great things to those who are loyal to it. Knowledge. Status. Power."

Quirinus wished he could say he wasn't tempted. "Power, you say?"

"Yes. Quite a bit of it, actually."

Curling his fingers around his mug once more, he looked again at the occupants of the bar. If he had power, he wouldn't ever need to fear theses brutes again – or the ones of his past. He would finally be on top of the food chain. No one would dare taunt him ever again for spending a summer afternoon picking flowers to press in his diary. They would all be too scared to call him a girl or a poof.

"What would I need to do to become a part of your cause?"

Snape grinned.


	18. Another Day, Another Lesson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scorpius Malfoy stands up to a bully.

Scorpius Malfoy was many things. He was the heir to the line of Malfoy, the son, and grandson of former Death Eaters, a decent Gobstone player, a perfectionist, a bit of logophile, but he was _not_ a whipping boy. Or, at least, he had no plans to become one. Not if he could help it.

"Pardon me?" he said, body taut and ears pricked for the response that would either cause him to escalate or defuse the situation he had found himself in.

The older boy, a square-faced Gryffindor, who looked more like a Goyle than the _actual_ Goyle in Scorpius's year, only smirked. "You heard me."

Well, then. If he wasn't going to take it back, Scorpius wasn't going to hold back. Surging forward, Scorpius swung his fist into the older boy's jaw. The boy's teeth snapped together as he reeled back. His hand throbbed, but Scorpius knew he couldn't show his pain. It would belie the seriousness of his next words. Stepping forward, he stretched himself as tall as he could without standing on his toes.

Glaring into the shocked eyes of his would-be bully, Scorpius hissed, "I am not a baby Death Eater. Nor am I responsible for the things my parents did during the war. Just because I am their son does not mean I will be your, or anyone's, punching bag to pay for their sins." Raising his hurting, bruised fist, he warned, "If you _ever_ call me something like that again, you'll get a lot more than an aching jaw!"

The Gryffindor said nothing, even as his brows hooked together into a unibrow. Scorpius had no trouble telling the older boy was angry. He'd not expected Scorpius to stand up for himself. He also probably never even imagined Scorpius would use his fist over his wand. But Scorpius had – would again, too. People expected such particular things from a boy like him. For him to be a Pureblood fanatic, for him to use his wand over his hands, for Scorpius to be the bully, rather than the bullied.

But they (as was par the course) were wrong. Scorpius had been raised to be more than those things.

-v-v-v-

_"Death Eater!" a voice shouted._

_Scorpius jumped at the word. Looking around, he tried to spot the nightmare figure, but all he saw was a red-faced man standing by the door of the bakery. He looked at the woman behind the counter who'd just a moment before handed Scorpius his biscuit. Perhaps it was her? But she was staring at someone on his side of the counter. At first, he thought she was staring at the man. Then, with a gut-twisting understanding, he realized it was his mother they were staring at._

_Pushing the coins across the counter to pay for his biscuit, his mother mumbled, "Thank you."_

_Taking Scorpius's free hand then, his mother led them past the fuming man and out the bakery's door. Once outside, Scorpius looked up at his mother. "Why'd he call you a Death Eater?"_

_His mother sighed. "Because I married one."_

_Scorpius's eyes went wide. His daddy couldn't be a Death Eater! He was the best daddy in all the world! He did all kinds of nice things, like donating money to that home for war orphans, and to the potioneers who were trying to develop a cure for being a werewolf! "No, he isn't!" he snapped, not liking at all that his mother was lying to him._

_Tears in her eyes, his mother crouched down and gripped his arms in an almost too-tight hold. "He was, darling. Oh, he wishes every day he hadn't been, but he was."_

_Scorpius dropped his biscuit and began to thrash in his mother's arms. "Stop lying! Daddy's nice! He loves us! He's not bad! Death Eaters are evil! Evil people don't love!"_

_His mother only brought Scorpius closer, squashing him against her as she whispered, "It's the truth, darling. He was a Death Eater. He's not bad – never was, really. I know this is hard for you, Scorpius, but not all Death Eaters were bad. Some of them didn't have a choice. They had to be Death Eaters or awful things would happen to them and their families."_

_He cried softly into her hair as she stroked his back. "I don't wanna be a Death Eater!"_

_His mother paused in her ministrations. "You're not going to be," she said, pulling him away from her._

_Hiccuping, Scorpius mumbled, "But Daddy was, and that man said you were one 'cause you're married to him. Since I'm his son, doesn't that mean I'm one too? Like you?"_

_"No!" his mother shouted. "No! Oh, no, no, no. Darling, don't let_ anyone _ever make you believe that! Just because you're father's son doesn't mean you_ are _him. Do you understand?"_

_"So I'm not a Death Eater?"_

_His mother's frame sagged in relief. "You aren't. You never will be, either," she told him before crushing him in a Devil's Snare-like hug._

-v-v-v-

At the older boy's continued silence, Scorpius leaned in even closer and growled, "Do you understand me?"

"Perfectly," the Gryffindor spat.

Nodding, Scorpius backed off. He then patiently held his ground and waited for the other to walk away first before he left for the Transfiguration class he was now late for. Scorpius sighed. He hated that he was going to lose his house points, but getting across to others that he wasn't his father mattered a lot more than winning the house cup.


	19. All in a Day's Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tilly Toke and her family had only wanted to have a nice holiday.

'This was supposed to be a restful holiday!' Tilly Toke thought in irritation while directing a young family of beach-goers toward an outcropping of rocks her husband, father, and sister-in-law had turned into a fortification the moment they realized what was flying overhead of the beach was a _dragon_.

Watching a pair of fat women sprint in the general direction of her, Tilly cupped her hands around her mouth, and shouted, "This way! This way!" The women, wild-eyed, looked at her. Tilly waved expressively in the direction of the fortification in response. "This way!" she yelled once more. Thankfully, the women still had their heads on their shoulders and they ran in the direction Tilly pointed them.

Once satisfied that the women were going to be alright, Tilly turned her head and began to scan the beach. The dragon was still stomping around on the east side of the beach. Occasionally, it unhinged its giant deathtrap of a maw and screeched. If the circumstances were different, Tilly would have loved to go a little closer and watch the Welsh Green in action. She always had a keen interest in dragons growing up, and this was a bit of a childhood dream come true.

Suddenly, beside her, her brother pops into existence. "Where are the aurors?" she asked when no more pops sounded in the moment after.

"Coming," Martin replied. Putting his hands on either side of his hips, he asked, "Did you and Mabel get the Muggles out of the way of it?"

Tilly nodded. "Mabel's a little south, toward the huts. I've spotted her now and again – like now," she said, pointing out where their sister stood to her brother. Mabel was a barely identifiable figure, pulling another, potentially male, figure in the direction they'd appeared from just seconds before.

Anxiously, Martin asked, "Has she been doing that a lot?"

"No," Tilly said. "That's just the third time she's come into view. I think she's got some imbeciles up there who don't realize how dangerous the situation is."

Martin grunted his understanding. Then after a couple of minutes of watching the dragon kick up water and sand, grumbled in annoyance, "Those bloody aurors should be here by now!"

Tilly had to agree. Where were they? Did they stop on the other side of Ilfracombe for coffee first? She was about to say something to that effect when the Welsh Green suddenly made a guttural noise and began to charge in the direction of the beach's huts.

"Bloody hell!" Martin yelled.

Heart thundering in her ears, Tilly shrieked, "We have to do something! Mabel's up that way!"

"We're not aurors!" her brother yelled back.

Tilly didn't listen. Charging toward the dragon, she yelled, " _Confrigo_!" the stream of light that shot out of her wand hit a beach chair to the left of the dragon, blowing it up. The Welsh Green reared back as the flaming debris flew into the air. It let out a loud, furious roar and snapped its head in Tilly's direction. The dragon set its black eyes on her and with a snarl, took a lumbering step in her direction.

She held up her wand and stood her ground. She could do this, she _had_ to do this. People were in danger and she knew how to fight. Tilly tensed as the beast opened its mouth and showed off rows and rows of needle-sharp teeth. She opened her own mouth, prepared to shoot off another curse in the dragon's direction, when, from behind, a body collided with hers and pushed her face-first into the sand.

" _Protego!_ " her brother's voice screamed.

Picking her face up from the sand a second later, Tilly screamed at the sight of a dome of fire surrounding them. It soon died away and she watched as the dragon aimed in another direction just moments after trying to burn them alive. In her ear, Martin wheezed, "The aurors must have finally arrived."

Pushing the man off her, she said, "Oh, thank Merlin."

"Thank Merlin is right!" Martin exclaimed.

Getting to her feet, Tilly told her brother, "Come, let's got to Dad, Todd, and Doreen. I sent at least a score of Muggles in that direction while you were getting the Aurors. We can help clean up this mess by erasing their memories of the dragon."

Her brother trotted after her, calling, "Don't you think we should at least wait until they've got it off the beach before we do that?"

-v-v-v-

A month after what is now called the Ilfracombe Dragon Attack, Tilly and her family are invited to stand before Wizengmot and receive accolade for their part in protecting the Muggles on the beach. Fit to burst with excitement, all Tilly could do was beam as the Chief Warlock stepped toward her. Bowing her head slightly, she allowed the man to put the medal around her neck.

"Thank you," she said.

The old man only chuckled. "After your exceptional display of bravery Missus Toke, you deserve no less than the Order of Merlin First Class."

Blushing slightly, Tilly glanced sideways at her husband beside her. Todd dipped his head slightly, agreeing with the Chief Warlock. Quietly, she murmured, "Still. Thank you."

The Chief Warlock reached for Tilly's hand and gave it a brief squeeze before he moved on to put a medal around her dad's neck. Watching on as the rest of her family was given their own medals for their part in the Attack, Tilly thought the only thing that would ever beat this day would be finding herself or one of her family members' faces on a Chocolate Frog Card.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment and/or kudo to let me know your thoughts :)


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